


The Secret War

by keerawa



Series: The Dawson Chronicles [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Character of Faith, Conspiracy, Diary/Journal, Gen, Hunters, Immortals, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Season/Series 04, Secrets, Watchers, Watchers Diaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-13
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe Dawson and Methos take on the Hunters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Recruits and an Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This is the long-promised sequel to "The Price of Interference". "The Secret War" can be read without it; just know that Joe has met and befriended an Immortal named Jean-Pierre. The events of this story are woven in and around the canon of late 4th season Highlander.
> 
> Thanks to my marvelous beta readers, [](http://mackiedockie.livejournal.com/profile)[**mackiedockie**](http://mackiedockie.livejournal.com/) and Stevie.

**Sunday October 15, 1995**

I settled down in front of my laptop with a big mug of the industrial-strength coffee Katie makes for the bar each morning. The Academy stat sheets come out on October 15 each year. Every supervisor gets a copy, through the Watcher’s encrypted network. Each Academy recruit due to be placed for internship in the coming year has their own sheet, with their picture, current class rank, place of origin, languages, and specializations. The Pacific Northwest isn’t the most glamorous spot, so I try to pull in good interns early.

I skimmed through the first pages. When I came across a recruit with Marksmanship skill noted on his sheet, I saluted him with my mug. As a former Marine, I was an expert shot with a rifle myself. My year had two at the Academy, both of us military veterans. I saw a second recruit with the same skill. And then a third. I started skimming through the records, a sinking feeling in my gut. A half hour later, I’d found that 12 out of 105 recruits had Marksmanship on their sheets. No way was that a coincidence. What was going on?

There are three ways the Watchers get new recruits. Some come from old Watcher families. Those generally come to the Academy when they’re around 20 years old. Then there are folks who are in the right place at the wrong time. They see a Quickening or an example of Immortal healing and ask too many questions. We bring those folks into the Academy, too. They come in all kinds of ages and conditions, but they make good Watchers. That’s how I got recruited by Ian. Then, very rarely, we’ll go out and recruit someone with a special skill we need. Like that pair of hackers back in the 80’s that set up our encrypted network and got us into all the travel and financial databases. Or our Assistant Curator, a sword-expert we swiped from the British National Museum.

I didn’t recognize the names of any of these 12 recruits, so they weren’t from old Watcher families. Unless someone fought a Challenge in front of a whole Olympic rifle team, they weren’t brought in for seeing too much. That left option number three. Who was recruiting shooters, and why?

I took a moment to remember if I had any contacts at the Academy this year. Of course – Fatima. I pulled out my address book to find her new number, remembering how I first met her.

Don Salzer was Fatima’s mentor at the Academy twelve years ago. He called me up and asked me to take her on as an intern. Fatima was a bright young lady, but she was painfully shy. She wouldn’t talk to her supervisors at all. Don told me that the only time she managed to speak up in a meeting was if someone said something truly outrageous. Don was convinced that I could bring her around. If not, she’d spend the rest of her career working for assholes with half her talent and the balls to take credit for all her ideas.

So, when Fatima showed up, I spent two weeks playing the ugly American. I was as ignorant as I was opinionated, until she started yelling back at me in pure self-defense. Pretty soon she was so used to talking back to me that she’d even do it when I said something reasonable. That’s when I let her in on the joke. I found out Fatima could cuss like a sailor in four languages. She forgave me, eventually.

Fatima had been appointed Professor of Forensics at the Academy last year. I was sure she’d help me out. I dialed the number.

“Fatima? Hey, this is Joe Dawson.”

“Joe! Are you back in Paris already?” Fatima's scratchy alto always reminded me of Garbo. I felt a twinge of guilt. I hadn’t spoken to her since Christine Salzer’s funeral.

“Nah, still in Seacouver.”

“That’s too bad. Marco finally got up the courage to attempt one of my mother’s roast goat recipes. We’re having some friends over to try it out next Saturday.” Marco’s a great cook. I think Fatima proposed to him the first time he prepared a four-course meal for her.

“Well, tell Marco I’m sorry to miss it. I actually called because I was checking out the Academy stat sheets …”

“And you want the pick of the litter?” She continued immediately. Obviously she’d already thought this through. “You’ll want to check out Emily Hargrove. She has a real instinct for surveillance. I think the woman could walk across a pool table in the middle of a game without anyone noticing.”

“And the problem with her is…” Fatima’s always had a thing for the underdog.

“Well, she’s an older woman, and only speaks American and bad French, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you,” Fatima teased gently. Pretend to speak crappy French for two weeks and some folks never let you forget it.

“All right, I’ll have a look at her sheet,” I conceded. “But that’s not actually why I called.”

“No?” she asked, leaving me an opening.

“I noticed that twelve of the recruits have skills in Marksmanship. You know anything about that?” Maybe there’s some simple explanation.

“Twelve? That doesn’t seem right.” She paused for a moment. I could hear static crackle over the international line. “It could be the Security Department is doing some recruiting. There have been some rumors about them tightening up after the Kalas incident. Would you like me to look into it for you, Joe?”

“I’d appreciate it, Fatima. But be careful. If it’s not the Security Department, it might be some of Horton’s people looking to get back into the Game.”

“Oh.” Her tone is completely serious. “I'll be discreet, Joe. And I’ll get back to you in a few days with whatever I find.”

“Thanks, Fatima.” I couldn’t help but warn her again. “Watch your head, OK?”

“Oh, Joe” she laughed, “You really have been spending too much time around Immortals. I promise, I will be careful.”

“Give my love to Marco.”

“I will, Joe. Good-bye.”

“Bye.” I looked at the phone in my hand, wondering if I’d just made a mistake.

  
 **Tuesday October 17, 1995**

Reading the weekly supervisor updates from Headquarters is pretty dull, but you just have to do it. No one else has the clearance, and occasionally there’s something important in there. The final section is called “We Ring the Bell.” It’s obituaries for active Watchers. We’re a big organization, so we often lose one or two members a week.

>   
>  _We Ring the Bell …  
>  For Dr. Fatima Tubic, professor of forensics at the Academy. Dr. Tubic was killed in a hit and run accident near her home on Monday, October 16. She is survived by her husband, Marco Tubic. The family invites her friends and students to a memorial to be held in their home this Saturday._

  
It was like a punch to the gut. That was no accident. God, Fatima, Marco, I’m so sorry. You deserved better. I should never have brought you into this.

Back when I was a young and stupid recruit, I asked a sergeant what the difference was between a police action and a war. He told me that when your friends’ bodies start hitting the ground, you’re at war. So, there I was, at war with the faceless enemy that killed Fatima.

Numbly, I planned my next moves. I bought a handful of phone cards so I could contact people on public phones without worrying about wiretaps. Not taking that basic precaution might have led directly to Fatima's death. I didn't know. I’d probably never know. But I wouldn't make the same mistake again.

I didn't call Marco. I had no idea what to say. Later, my guitar let some of the bitterness out, playing a long solo before closing with "Death Letter." The early crowd was very quiet as I handed them over to the night's scheduled band. A little unfair to them, maybe. I didn't give a damn.

Tomorrow, I'd call Adam. Adam Pierson, the Watcher. Methos, the survivor. Together we’d hunt down the Hunters.


	2. New Recruits and an Old Friend

**Wednesday October 18, 1995**

I drove around town at lunchtime, looking for a tail. I didn’t see one, so I pulled over at a gas station and got a phone card out of my wallet. I dialed Adam Pierson’s home number from memory. With the time difference, he should be there, unless he was pulling one of his marathon late night work sessions. The phone picked up on the 3rd ring.

“Adam? It’s Joe Dawson.”

“Joe. Are you back in Paris?” He sounded subdued. “Fatima’s memorial is coming up on Saturday.” I’m glad I’m on the wrong continent to attend. It’d be hard to look Marco in the eye without letting him know that his wife was murdered.

“No. No, I’m still in Seacouver. Look, Adam … I think we have a problem.” I told Methos about Fatima looking into the situation at the Academy for me.

“And you decided I should be next on the list? How thoughtful. I’m hanging up now,” he hissed at me.

“Wait!” I wasn’t sure if he’d hung up, but I didn’t hear a dial tone, so I kept talking. “I don’t know what happened. They might have my phone tapped. Fatima might have slipped up on her end. Hell, it might just be a coincidence.”

Finally, I got a response. “Do you really believe that, Joe?”

“No. That’s why I’m calling from a pay phone across town.”

A pause.

“Tell me everything,” Methos ordered.

So I did. I started with the inconsistencies I’d found while working through my memories of James and the Hunters. James Horton's release back into the field after the Kurgan, Wilmington’s Amusement Park Massacre, and even after trying to kill MacLeod. James’s mysterious ability to “steal” money out of Watcher funds as needed, even after he was kicked out of the organization. Ian Bancroft being removed from his post as Coordinator for Western Europe for “instability” after Darius was killed. It smelled like some kind of internal coup, and the shooters being recruited at the Academy were just icing on the cake.

“I think we need to leave the Academy alone, for now.” I told him. “But I’d like you to look into the Department of Psychology and Counseling. See if you can dig up any connections with James Horton over there. ‘Cause either they’re a bunch of fuck-ups, or they’re doing it on purpose.”

I heard an amused snort from Methos. “It might very well be incompetence, but I’ll see what I can find. I’ll get back to you in a few days.” He hung up. This was the second protégé of Don’s that I’d sent into danger. But Adam Pierson just happened to be Methos the 5,000 year-old Immortal, and sneaky as hell. He’d be fine.

  
 **Friday October 20, 1995**

Methos showed up in Seacouver today. Katie was working behind the bar. She told me ‘some Adam guy’ was looking for me. By the time I got to my office, Methos was sitting in the swivel chair by my laptop.

“Adam” I asked, “What …” The son of a bitch was going through my files, sure as shooting.

“Joe,” he interrupted. “This bar is great, I’m so glad the big guys OK’d you buying it!” He put a finger to his lips and glanced around the room meaningfully, chattering on in pure Adam Pierson style. Was my office bugged?

“I found that one of the journals had been improperly transcribed. Some people just have no idea how to phonetically transcribe other languages, it’s criminal. Anyway, there is a reference to an Immortal that we thought was called ‘Merhu’, but actually may have been ‘Methos’. He may have been here in the Pacific Northwest as recently as the mid 19th century. Isn’t that incredible!” Adam beamed at me.

I blinked a few times. “Really?” I ventured.

“Well, I’ll have to check some local sources to be sure, but it’s certainly a possibility,” Adam assured me, with a little gleam in his eye. I’m glad he gets such a kick out of pretending to try and find himself.

“And Seacouver’s so nice and warm this time of year, Paris is just freezing. You must have some very nice parks and such. I’d love to get out and see some of the sights while we’re here.” I managed to translate that to a request to get outdoors where it’d be harder for anyone to listen in.

“Umm … there’s a park near here with some Magnolia trees that you might like. We can check it out on the way to lunch.”

“Sounds good, Joe, lead the way.”

In the car Methos jabbered on about his latest research and the gossip going around at Headquarters. Funny thing was, I didn’t mind. Adam Pierson was brilliant, gawky, and sarcastic, bashful with girls, enthusiastic about the weirdest things, and fun at parties. He was a fan of all kinds of music, including the blues. We’d always gotten on great, since Don first introduced us. As much as I enjoyed getting to know Methos the Immortal, I’d kind of missed my little drinking buddy, Adam.

He kept turning sideways in his seat, talking straight at me, and probably using his peripheral vision to check if we were being followed. Very smooth.

As we got out of the car at the park, Methos said, “So, Kristin Gilles is in town.”

“Yeah, she’s opening a new branch of her modeling business here. I’m hoping she and MacLeod don’t run into each other.”

“The odds of them meeting have gone up, now that she has young Richie in her bed.”

“What?” Aww, hell, that was the last thing Mac needed right now. “Since when?”

Methos shrugged. “Just last night.”

“You did hack into my account on the computer, I knew it!”

“Joe,” Methos said, with his best ‘innocent Adam’ look, “would I do that?” I didn’t buy that look even when I thought he was 24 years old, I sure ain’t gonna start now.

We walked through the park in silence as I wondered if I should tell Mac, warn Richie, or actually keep my mouth shut for a change.

I glanced over at the man walking beside me. Struck by the unimposing picture Methos made, I deliberately set myself to Watch him. Methos could be hiding a sword under that long coat, but he didn’t look Immortal. It took me a few seconds to figure out why. Methos ambled along, hands stuck deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, looking like the kid who gets picked last for kickball. There was no hint of the balanced grace I associated with Immortals who lived and died by the sword. Quite the act. Funny thing was, his buzz would give him away to Immortals in a split-second, and most Mortals wouldn’t care how he moved. So the whole thing was just for the benefit of us Watchers.

Don Salzer showed me a note from Adam Pierson’s permanent Watcher file once. It was written by his Surveillance instructor at the Academy. The guy had written that he was willing to pass Adam, but only if he received a written guarantee that Adam would never be placed in the field. Called Adam an “unacceptable risk to himself and those around him.” I wondered what a 5,000-year-old Immortal with a twisty sense of humor had done to secure himself a place in Research.

Eventually Methos gestured to a park bench next to the path in a grassy field, and we sat down.

He took a deep breath, all business. “You were right, Joe. We do have a problem.”

“Yeah?” I felt the weight settle in on me. “All right then. What did you find?”

Methos pulled one knee up on the bench and then spoke quickly. “Both James Horton’s release and the report on Ian Bancroft were signed by the same man. Dr. Narath Ung. You know him?”

“I remember Ung. He interviewed me after the thing with Kalas." Christ, I hate those psych interviews. "Little Asian guy; real intense. What did you think of him?”

Methos pursed his lips. “I thought he was unnervingly good at his job.”

Unnervingly? “How’s that?”

“I was debriefed by him right after I sent Kalas to prison. Don had been a mentor to me, and a good friend, Joe. He’d just been murdered.” Just like Fatima. Methos swallowed and looked down for a moment.

When he looked back up, Methos’s face was perfectly composed. “Adam wanted to take a leave of absence, to grieve. But I really couldn’t afford it at that time. I needed to stay where I was to keep an eye on things. So I was … unsettled. Being interviewed about it by a skilled observer was risky.”

Most people start talking about themselves in the third person; it’s a bad sign. I guess that’s just normal for Methos.

“I assume you’ve got more on Ung than the fact his name was on the files.”

“I do,” he agreed. “I checked out his computer system. Dr. Ung has almost all of his files protected with a strong encryption algorithm …”

I interrupted, trying to leapfrog the technical details. “What did you find when you broke the code?” Methos leaned back on the bench and sighed. “What?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Joe, I don’t know whether to be irritated or flattered. Do you just assume that I am an expert at all human endeavors?”

“Well … 5000 years. Yeah, pretty much.”

Adam opened his mouth on a thought, and then snapped it shut. “I am an expert on many things. I can, for example, brew no less than 17 palatable alcoholic beverages from common foodstuffs. Modern cryptography, however, is not one of my specialties.”

I took a breath to respond, but he was off again. “The institution where I most recently studied number theory considered zero a foreign heresy.” Probably a lie, but I made a mental note, just in case.

“What’s more, and this is key, if I had happened to become a master cryptographer in my travels, do you think I might, just might, have used a bit of that expertise to secure the Immortal database CD that got us in some trouble with Kalas less than a year ago?” His voice was getting high-pitched. When he gets like this, you can’t react much. It just encourages him.

“Hmm. Couldn’t break the code, then?”

“No. I could not. Break. The bloody code.” Methos threw himself back into a sprawl. That had to hurt, on a park bench. Somehow the whole scene rang false. And that worried me. The rant could be for fun, the sprawl is a great way of looking non-threatening. But one right after the other made for a very unconvincing performance.

Normally, even Methos’s blatant lies are almost believable. He takes pride in it. How else could an ancient Immortal masquerade as a twenty-something grad student in the middle of a group of trained, paranoid Watchers for a full decade, without aging a day, and not get caught. The fact that he was getting sloppy, even around me, suggested that there was something wrong. I figured there’d be no harm in checking.

“So, what did you find that’s got your panties in a twist?” I asked him.

Methos gave me a neutral look. “What makes you say that?”

“Lucky guess.” He squinted, assessing me. Maybe I’ll stop checking, if me being able to tell he’s stressed makes him even more stressed.

After a few seconds Methos broke eye contact, shoulders twitching in a tiny shrug. “There was a single file on Ung’s computer that wasn’t encrypted. Anyone on the Watcher network can access it.” He pulled a few sheets of paper out of the pocket of his trench coat and handed them to me, before dropping his head back to watch the cloudscape.


	3. The File

_The following is a partial transcript of a tape found among the personal possessions of James Horton after his death. It includes a speech by Watcher Narath Ung, at a secret meeting that apparently took place in the fall of 1993, following Horton’s execution of the Immortal Darius. This transcript is hereby sealed by order of the Watchers Tribunal on this date of September 25, in the Year of Our Lord 1994.  
-Jack Shapiro_  


* * *

  
Greetings fellow Watchers. Monsieur Horton has spoken passionately about the massacres, torture, rapes, and other atrocities that we have Watched Immortals such as the Kurgan, Blake Wilmington, and Quentin Barnes carry out. All of us are thankful that these evil creatures are longer a threat to humanity. However, the whispers I have heard among you are not about such monsters. I have heard the question, “Why Darius?” My name is Dr. Narath Ung, and I am here tonight to answer that question.

I am considered an expert on the human response to violent trauma. As such, I serve two primary functions within the Watchers. The first is as head of the Committee on Psychological Evaluations for field agents who have witnessed or been victims of extreme violence. We determine who is to be placed back in the field, who is to be given a respite of desk work, and who needs more in-depth psychological evaluation and care at one of our own facilities. Many of you in this room have been returned to the field through my intervention.

I also work in the Research division, studying Immortal responses to pain, violence, loss, and other stressors. For Watchers who have been raised in countries that currently enjoy peace and plenty, this can be difficult to understand. These field agents may not be able to accurately predict and understand their assigned Immortal's reactions. But much of human history, and many places in the world now, are still drenched in violence. And every Immortal’s life is a violent one. I have found that pre-Immortals, allowing for their orphan status and therefore common lack of supportive family structure, show responses to violence no different than mortals from the same culture. Immortals soon after their first death are quite similar. But the older an Immortal is the more divergent their responses become from the human norm. I will focus on these differences, and the danger they pose to the human race, tonight.

It is important to realize that Immortals are all, by definition, survivors. I do not include those who have survived an accident through luck in this category. Instead, I define a survivor as a person who, through their personal characteristics, choices and actions, has stayed alive through an extended period in which death was a constant threat. Even among mortals, survivors are not “nice” people. I was a survivor in Cambodia, as a young man, before the Watchers recruited me. To save my own life, I did a great many things that might horrify you here in this room. And so I speak from personal experience. Survivors follow our captors’ orders to the letter. We hoard our food rather than share it with the sick. We trade our bodies for safety. We eat the corpses of our friends rather than starve. We will not throw ourselves on a grenade, but we might throw someone else onto it. We kill our own wounded rather than let them slow down our retreat. Survivors are what is left after the kind and gentle have been weeded out.

All of you have heard the phrase, “A fate worse than death”? Each man or woman has their own personal code, some price that is too high to pay, some line that they will not cross, even to save their own life. Throughout history, some have died rather than: be raped, be enslaved, deny their God, break an oath, betray a friend, abandon a loved one, leave a man behind, kill an innocent. Mortals have died rather than cross these lines, and so have Immortals. However, none of the Immortals now living among us have made that choice. Think of it – over the course of centuries and millennia of life, all of these dilemmas will arise in the life of an Immortal. And for them to still be alive, they must have chosen to place their own survival above all else, every time. The human mind protects itself, whether Mortal or Immortal. Rather than be ripped apart by the choices we make, a survivor makes excuses, loses empathy, and dehumanizes those we have harmed. “She was just a stupid whore.” “Nits make lice.” “Mortals all die, anyway.” “There can be only one.” Perhaps I am more monk than psychologist to say this, but every time a human chooses self-preservation over compassion, we lose a piece of our soul.

And what of Darius? After 400 years of living as a brutal warlord, he retreated to Holy Ground. But even then, he was still choosing survival. How many times did he choose to stay on Holy Ground, when he could he saved the lives of those he loved? We have documented three incidents, I am sure there were many more. Was that the extent of this “Immortal Saint’s” compassion, his love? He would help others, right up until it might endanger him, and then no more. He had his students risk their lives, taking Challenges meant for him. In the end, when there were just a few Immortals left, would we have seen compassion in his eyes, or battle-lust?

I left the jungles of Cambodia. For those who stayed behind, the Khmer Rouge were eventually defeated. We were able to recover, in peacetime, some of what we lost in our desperate struggle to survive. But for Immortals, there is no peace. No Immortal will ever die of old age, sickness, starvation, or accident. But this is no blessing, because they will all die with a sword at their throat, murdered. All but One.

The time of the Gathering is upon us. The pace of their brutal Game is increasing, and we are running out of time. Those Immortals that put anything above their own survival are dying. Those who choose to survive are becoming less and less human. It is survival of the fittest, but the fittest is not just the strongest and fastest. It is the one who will do anything, absolutely anything, to survive and to win. Kill an enemy? Yes. Burn down a church to flush out the Immortal hiding there? Yes. Shoot your opponent before beheading him? Yes. Kill an innocent mortal? Yes. Betray a friend? Yes. Murder a lover? Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes! The One who wins this Game will be a burned out husk, and I wouldn’t entrust a dog to what is left of that Immortal. Any scrap of power that the Prize may confer over humanity is too much, and there is only one solution.

We could not save the Immortals, even if we wished to. We cannot stop the Game. They will wipe each other out, until only One remains. This we cannot allow. It is easy to kill the monsters, and there are plenty of them out there. But they all need to die. For those that still have some innocence left, some goodness – let it be a mercy killing. We can save them from the most painful choice of all, to kill or be killed by those they love. Do not allow yourself to be moved by pity. We must make the hard choices. We must take on this burden of guilt; become the survivors of this secret war. We must kill them all, before they kill each other, and destroy us in the process.


	4. Conspiracy Theories

**Friday October 20, 1995**

When I looked back up at Methos he was watching me, calm and still. It can’t have been easy for the world’s oldest survivor to read that. Or maybe … was he worried that I might believe it? I put that worry to rest right away. “That’s the biggest bunch of crap I ever read!”

Methos smiled a little and put his arm up on the back of the bench. “Actually, I’d say it’s one of the more effective pieces of propaganda I’ve seen since Goebbels retired.”

“So what does this tell us?” I asked him. “Was Ung the one in charge of the Hunters back in ’93, not James?”

Methos tilted his head slightly. “It's probable. This also suggests that Ung has been recruiting Watchers sent to him for evaluation. That could be useful in narrowing down the search, if I can get my hands on a list of his patients.”

“All right, what about Shapiro's note. You think that’s for real?” I've known Jack Shapiro since Nixon was in office; would have sworn he was on the level.

Methos blew a puff of air through pursed lips. "That's certainly the most interesting part of the document. I checked out the date. The Tribunal was in closed session that day, so it's at least possible."

"You said that file was just sitting there on the network, right? No password?"

"No protection at all, Joe."

We looked at each other for a moment, waiting to see who will say it first. I broke the silence. "That means he doesn't care who knows. He's not afraid it will get back to the Tribunal."

"That … does seem the most likely interpretation, yes."

My knuckles started to ache from gripping my cane so hard. "So HQ has known for over a year that Ung is recruiting for the Hunters, and they just patted him on the head?"

Methos shrugged. "I suppose it's possible they censured Dr. Ung in some way, but I checked, and he's still in charge of the Committee on Psychological Evaluations."

"Holy shit! When he was using his position to recruit? That's like the Golden Seal of Tribunal Approval." Watcher regional offices are pretty independent. That's a tradition that stretches back to days when it took months to get a message from HQ. But any decision that could have an impact beyond your own region gets kicked upstairs to the Tribunal. When a Watcher breaks his oath, it's their job to be judge and jury. I wouldn't be surprised if I got called up before the Tribunal someday for my friendship with MacLeod. I tried not to sweat it. But for Ung to get away scot-free after what he'd one; that pissed me off.

A truly ugly thought popped into my head. "Adam – do you think Horton and Ung were assigned to do this?"

Methos sat back for a moment to think it through. "No," he concludes. "That's certainly the worst case scenario, but if the Tribunal had decided to Hunt down the Immortals, there are quicker and easier ways to do it than setting up a secret splinter group."

I had to disagree. "Come on, Adam, Watcher witch hunts went out with the Third Crusade."

"Really," he interrupted. "I seem to recall over a hundred Watchers readily mobilizing to hunt down an Immortal on the word of a single supervisor. They seemed quite eager when you sent them after Kalas."

Ugh. "But that was different," I protested. "Kalas was about to publish the secret of Immortality, and he'd been targeting Watchers."

"Hmmmm," he offered, turning his head to watch a man with a German Shepherd walk briskly past us on the path. Adam Pierson had been working in Headquarters at the time, and I had to wonder how it looked to the researchers there. Could be that someday that precedent would come back and bite me in the ass.

"How much have you told MacLeod so far?" Methos asked, as the dog-walker got out of range.

"Nothing. And we're gonna keep it that way," I snapped. Shit, that didn't come out right.

"Really." Methos's face was amused, but there was ringing steel in his voice. "And how did we come to this momentous decision?"

Adam Pierson had a well deserved reputation for end-runs around directives and supervisors he disagreed with. Looked like Methos wouldn't even bother going behind my back about it. Unless I could convince him.

"Look, we tell Mac, what's he gonna do? Say, 'Thanks for the heads-up guys, good luck with that?' No – the Hunters have hurt him before, and he'll want to protect us. He's gonna try to help."

"Well, MacLeod's help would be very useful."

"Useful? Sure he'd be useful! He'd be the fucking Swiss Army Knife! And then what? What about when someone else dies?" Saying this out loud makes it real. "'Cause you know Fatima ain't gonna be the last."

I glare at Methos until he nods, acknowledging the point. "If it's all Watchers, that's one thing. But if Mac's in the mix…"

Methos blindly reaches out one hand to touch my shoulder, stopping me. His eyes are unfocused, like a chess master thinking ten moves ahead. "The Watchers as a whole would see him as a threat," he whispered. "They would target him, and MacLeod, alive or dead, would pull dozens of Immortals into the conflict. It would turn into an all-out war between Immortals and Watchers."

The picture Methos paints ain't pretty. Kalas killed four Watchers. He took out Jacques Vemas right in the middle of Headquarters, for Christ's sake. And thinking back to that frantic search, my people were scared. Scared people are dangerous. I've even heard rumors that the Tribunal is moving the Paris Headquarters, because "the Immortals" know where it is. Maybe the average Watcher isn't as far from the Hunters as I thought.

Methos shook himself a bit and took a deep breath. "I was wrong, Joe," he said, "that is the worse case scenario. We need to keep this secret from MacLeod, and from the rest of the Watchers."

"So you and me are gonna take on the Hunters all by ourselves, then?" I say it like a joke, but I'm really hoping that's not the plan.

"Nooooo, that won't be necessary," he reassured me. "You've always underestimated the amount of influence you have in the Watchers, Joe. Your initial confrontation with the Hunters, the Kalas incident – they've raised your stock tremendously. The older members of the organization respect you, and you're something of a hero to the younger Watchers."

"Great, just what I need," I mutter. I look up to find Methos staring at me coldly.

"Yes, it is exactly what you need, and you will use it, Joe Dawson, because it is the only advantage we have."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the idea. He's right, of course. If things went bad Methos might be able to disappear, but Mac, Amanda, Richie, and a whole bunch of Watchers, would all be right in the middle. I'd do whatever I had to.

Seeing it in my face, Methos relaxed. I sat there on the bench next to him for a few minutes, letting it all sink in.

“So you really think my office is bugged?” I had to ask.

Methos shrugged. “It would make sense, and Horton’s men had you under surveillance back in ’93, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, that’s true. I’ll need to go get one of those gizmos that sniffs out bugs, get them out of there.”

“No, leave them in place, Joe. Lull the enemy into a false sense of security, plant disinformation, the possibilities are endless. Once you remove the bugs, they know you know. Don’t limit your options yet.”

"Right. Right. Don't let on that I know, leave the bugs and wire taps in place, don't make any big changes in routine..."

"Exactly," Methos said. "I knew you'd start thinking, once you got over the shock. We're in enemy territory, Joe."

Now he's just trying to piss me off. "Yeah, I think I got that part. You wanna bunk at my place, or are you staying at a hotel?"

Methos accepted the change in topic. “I think I’ll go drop in on MacLeod," he remarked brightly.

“Is that wise?” I had to ask.

He threw me a surprised look. “Joe, I hardly think MacLeod will take the head of a houseguest, no matter how uninvited.”

“I mean, is it wise to spend time around Immortals? One of their Watchers is bound to ID you as an Immortal, sooner or later.”

He turned away to watch a woman with jogging with a baby stroller and spoke in a distant voice. “No, Joe, I’m sure it’s not a wise thing to do.” He turned back to me with a Mona Lisa smile as he added, “Luckily, I never claimed to be wise.”

And that was that.


	5. Too Many Tom Clancy Novels

_  
**"The Secret War" - chapter 5**   
_   
**Tuesday October 24, 1995**

Methos took Kristin Gilles' head last night. He claims it broke a 200-year streak. Maybe so. Maybe not. MacLeod believes it, anyway. 

Don't get me wrong; I'm glad Kristin's dead. Mac has a bad habit of leaving his enemies breathing, particularly old friends or lovers. And that doesn't do much for his life expectancy. I'm okay with falsifying the Chronicles to put the kill in MacLeod's name, even though putting misinformation in there goes against the grain. But Methos could have told me he was sending Kristin's Watcher an email in my name, claiming that Kristin was heading over to Richie's place. I'll back his play, but I'd like a look at the playbook.

Veronique Millet was pissed, and I don't blame her. Missing the Challenge where her Immortal lost her head is not gonna look good on Millet's record. I did my best to smooth things over, considering I didn't know a thing about it until her call woke me out of a sound sleep. I sent in a supplementary note to my report, taking full responsibility for the bad intel. She shouldn't have to take the fall, just cause she's been in the Paris HQ often enough to recognize Adam Pierson. He's playing a damn dangerous game here, especially if the Hunters are sniffing around.

  
 **Thursday October 26, 1995**

Methos created a secure storage system for my private journals. I've been worried about who might get their paws on them since I first started bending the rules by talking to Mac way back in '93. If there are Hunters around, it's much more dangerous than before. I'd considered not writing any more, and destroying my old journals. But Methos appreciates the value of a man's journals, so he set me up.

I've got this crazy idea that someday the Watchers will pull their heads out of their collective asses, and my journals might help to set the record straight.

  
 **Saturday October 28, 1995**

Today I took Methos to Freeway Park, a concrete and water "park" downtown. He seemed to really like it, said he'd always been fond of stone gardens for their "illusion of permanence". It was raining pretty hard, so we had the place to ourselves. We finally had a chance to get down to some serious conspiring. We talked about who to trust, recruitment, cell structure, guerilla tactics, secure communications and strategy. Methos taught me how to run a book code. You need the peoples sending and receiving messages to have identical copies of a book. A message starts with a number to describe the page of the book you're looking at. Each letter in the alphabet gets assigned a value. To decode a message you add the value of the first letter on the page to the first letter of the message, to find the actual letter. It's slow, but near impossible to break.

I asked Methos where he learned all that spy shit. He claimed it came from reading too many Tom Clancy novels. Bullshit. Someday I will shake that man until honest-to-God names, dates and places come flying out his mouth.

Book shopping with Adam Pierson is a hoot, though. A scholar and a retired rare book dealer got every right to cop an attitude when they walk into Barnes and Nobles. And Adam has taste. Not good taste, necessarily, but taste. We paid cash and walked out with 16 pairs of books.

  
 **Friday November 3, 1995**

Let’s see, where to begin? Oh, yeah, I got to jam with Claudia Jardine. So that makes it kind of a red-letter day. Mac must have had Claudia pegged as a pre-Immortal for years. Walter Reinhart decided to jump-start Claudia into Immortality by shooting her. She refused to let MacLeod train her with a sword, and just continued on her tour. Incredible talent, but with that attitude, I wouldn’t play with her as a regular thing. Not worth the drama.

Speaking of drama: Methos' taken off on a world tour with my waitress, Alexa. I just don’t get him. One day he’s helping me set up a plan to save the Watchers, the next he takes off to show a dying girl a good time. OK, so maybe we are all dying, by his standards. But still …

He told me the Watchers would still be here in 6 months; Alexa wouldn’t. Is it selfless, putting Alexa’s needs above all else? Selfish, taking off to have some fun when I need his help? Maybe he really is in love. Maybe this is some kind of 5000-year wisdom that I wouldn’t recognize if it bit me on the ass. Methos, you better treat her right.

One part of me keeps whispering that it's a pretty damn convenient time for Adam Pierson to take a leave of absence from the Watchers. Were things getting too hot for him? I'm trying not to listen to that voice. But a little paranoia might come in handy over the next few months.

I don't know if I can pull this off without him.


	6. A Postcard from Jean-Pierre

_**"The Secret War" - chapter 6**_  
 **Friday November 24, 1995**

Sorting through the day's mail at the bar, I found a postcard. The front had a picture of an anatomically correct donkey piñata. Or maybe the piñata-maker was optimistic – I haven't seen enough donkeys to be sure. I wave to Mike behind the bar and head into my office, closing the door behind me. 

In the two months since Jean-Pierre walked south out of Seacouver, he's sent six postcards and four letters. The postcards are cheery little updates on where he's been and what he's doing. The letters are different; anguished late-night confessions from a man afraid to go back to sleep. So I was glad that it was just a postcard this time. I settled down into my chair, resting my cane against the desk.

I flipped the postcard over. It was postmarked 3 days ago in Tijuana, Mexico. Jean-Pierre's graceful handwriting sprawled across the card, growing smaller near the bottom as he fit in a last few words.

>  _Joe-  
>  Tijuana makes me laugh. Americans cross the border to indulge their appetites as if a line on a map makes it all not count. It's a relief to spend time among people sane enough to take a siesta in the midday heat._
> 
>  _I sang 70's rock & roll covers with a mariachi band today. You would have loved it. The rhythms were first lazy, then frantic in their hands._
> 
>  _This Sunday I plan to attend Mass at San Eugenio de Mazenod. I hear they are too poor to afford pews, but have a choir to touch the heart of God._
> 
>  _Say hello to Duncan, Grace, Katie, Alexa, and anyone else who wants to know!_

  
As always, the postcard was unsigned. I would let Mac know, and ask him to pass on Jean-Pierre's greeting to Grace Chandel when he next called her. I'd show Katie the postcard when she works her shift tomorrow morning. Alexa is off on her world tour with Methos. I could leave a message with his service; tell her Jean-Pierre was thinking of her. She'd appreciate that, especially if she wasn't feeling too hot. Between Jean-Pierre's postcards and the ones Methos had sent, I could start an "Immortals Round the World" bulletin board.

The last phrase of the postcard caught my eye. Anyone else who wants to know? Know what? Then it hit me. There was one person in the world whose job it is to know all about Jean-Pierre. His Watcher, young Theresa Mendoza. Jean-Pierre spotted her the first day she started tailing him.

I'd had some concerns about Mendoza's assignment to Jean-Pierre. Sure, she was a native Spanish-speaker, and fit enough to keep up with Jean-Pierre on the road. But Castilian Spanish is nothing like what they speak in Central America, and she was a new agent fresh out of an internship Watching Octavio Consone. Not the best prep in the world for somebody like Jean-Pierre. From her file, she didn't seem like the kind of woman used to sleeping under bridges.

On the positive side, she'd been recruited after she saw her stepfather lose a Challenge. According to her file, they'd had a solid relationship. That pretty much meant the Hunters wouldn't try recruiting her. She might not have been the best choice, but at least I didn't have to worry about her offing Jean-Pierre in his sleep.

I pulled my laptop towards me and logged onto the Watcher network. No new alerts, and Mendoza hadn't sent up any red flags. Until Jean-Pierre settled down in a different region, he is a part of the Pacific Northwest's caseload. I still have access. Working through a layer of additional security, I pulled up his file. According to the file, Jean-Pierre is in San Diego. And the latest entry is 5 days old.

With modern technology and communications, field agents are expected to file reports every other day. So something's wrong.

Used to be that losing your Immortal was embarrassing, but no big deal. They usually turned up within a couple of days. If not, the Watcher Network would pick them up within a few months at a travel hub, or when they accessed their accounts. Only a handful would disappear long-term. That's how it used to be.

Nowadays, things are different. Since I realized that the Hunters had become active again, I've been doing some digging. In the past 4 months, of the Immortals that have been reported MIA, only 12% have resurfaced. Seems the "Lost Immortal" flag on a file is attracting Ung and his Hunters like a blood trail.

That's the kind of thing the Tribunal is supposed to deal with, but Methos found evidence that the Hunter influence in the organization goes all the way to the top. Blabbing what I knew could get me dead. So I just rode my agents to keep close tabs on their Immortals and sent Amanda a warning that it might be unhealthy to slip her leash right now.

Jean-Pierre might have a hit squad after him. Hell, the postcard's 3 days old. He could be dead already. Fuck!

I stopped myself from picking up the phone. There was a good chance the damn thing's bugged. No need to go off half-cocked, Joseph. Get all the facts, and then you do what you can do.

Jean-Pierre should be safe, as long as Mendoza doesn't flag him as MIA.

I opened the last entry. It was a long one, cross-referenced to another Immortal's file, David Murphy. That usually means a Challenge. I pulled up his photo. Murphy's a 90 year-old bruiser with a bad-broke nose from his pre-Immortal days. I read Mendoza's report, skimming through until I got to the good part.

> 1:25 pm JP arrives at the La Jolla Farmer's Market.  
> 1:47 pm JP comforts a crying child by juggling produce from a nearby stall. Demonstration draws a crowd and the girl's mother arrives to reclaim child.  
> 2:05 pm JP exhibits signs of "the Buzz". Turns around and hurries past me, heading for an exit.  
> 2:07 pm David Murphy (Immortal, see cross-referenced file) appears out of the crowd, pushing JP into the opening between two stalls. JP recovers quickly from the surprise and smiles.
> 
> JP – "Slow down, big guy, that's no way to introduce yourself to strangers! I'm Eduardo Moreno. Let's head down the street to the Elephant Bar, I'll buy you a beer."
> 
> Murphy – "I'm David Murphy. And you'll give me more than a beer."
> 
> Murphy shoves JP further into the gap, muttering something too low to hear. Murphy's larger frame blocks what happened next, but from his reaction I would assume that JP hit him in a private area. Murphy recoils and falls down onto the ground.
> 
> JP stands over him, reaching into his jacket. There was a snarl on his face, and for a moment I thought that he would pull his sword right there, in the middle of the market. Then he looks around at the crowd, eyes focusing on me. JP pauses, takes a deep breath, and spits on the ground by Murphy's head.
> 
> JP – "Not in this lifetime, pajero. Mt. Soledad Cross, at dawn."

  
Wish I'd been there to see it for myself. I can't tell from Mendoza's description how much of that was for real, and how much was pure theatre on Jean-Pierre's part. If it was real, he's closer to the edge than I thought.

> JP waits for a groaned confirmation from Murphy and then moves at a near-run to the nearest alley. He threads through the maze of back streets away from the market.
> 
> 2:50 pm JP arrives at tent city. At this point I returned to my hotel to get some sleep, so that I would be ready to Watch the Challenge at dawn.

  
Rookie mistake. Sure, it wouldn't be easy for Mendoza to blend in a tent-city, but that's the damn job. You find your guy, stick by him, and Watch him. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to know you can't do that from a comfy bed across town. Watching an Immortal prepare for a Challenge is one of the best ways of getting to know them. Short of sitting down and talking to them, that is. And knowing Jean-Pierre the way I do, I bet I know what happened the next morning.

I moused down through Mendoza's description of her predawn set-up in the Mt. Soledad Park, designed to capture detailed intel on the Challenge. Murphy and his Watcher showed up 20 minutes before dawn. They waited. And waited. Then they waited a bit more. An hour after dawn, Murphy took off, smashing the windshield of a car on his way out of the park. Mendoza waited another hour, and then returned to the tent-city to reacquire Jean-Pierre. He, of course, was long gone.

The last few lines of the entry were in Spanish. I don't speak or read it, but it shares a lot of root words with French, and I've picked up cuss words in a dozen languages. Using that kind of language in an official field report ain't gonna reflect well on Mendoza, not at all. But I gotta give her points for style.

What's more, Mendoza hasn't reported Jean-Pierre missing yet. According to Procedure, she should have thrown up a red flag within 24 hours of losing him. Mendoza must have bet she could pick him up again quick, and no one the wiser. But she lost the bet, and she must be frantic by now.

Mendoza's dug herself into one hell of a deep hole. Bless her conniving little heart. If she'd followed protocol, Jean-Pierre'd be a dead man. I just need to get her back on his trail, fast. There's not even a moral dilemma here, since Jean-Pierre pretty much asked me to pass his location onto her.

No use calling Mendoza on her cell phone. Those are for emergencies, and I do not want to attract the wrong kind of attention to her. I opened up my mail program, and worded the email carefully; there's no telling who might read it.

> To: [tmendoza@watcher.net](mailto:tmendoza@watcher.net)  
> From: [jdawson@watcher.net](jdawson@watcher.net)  
> Subject: New info on JP
> 
> Ms. Mendoza –
> 
> JP sent a postcard to a local recipient. It indicated that he plans to attend Mass this Sunday at San Eugenio de Mazenod in Tijuana. I hope this advance notice assists you in making plans for adequate surveillance.
> 
> I'll be in touch.
> 
> Joe Dawson  
> Local Area Supervisor  
> Pacific Northwest Division

  
You owe me one, Mendoza. And with this Hunter situation heating up, I might need to call in that marker someday soon. I hit Send, and breathed a sigh of relief. Jean-Pierre was safe.

For now.

I can't let this go. Not any more. Methos and I made plans for setting up a Watcher group to counter the Hunters. But when he took off with Alexa I put everything on hold. It just can't wait any longer. The next Immortal target might be in Mexico or Maui, Tennessee or Timbuktu. The Hunters are organized and they're acting all over the globe. If I do nothing, those deaths will be on my head.

It's time to get off my ass and start recruiting. The Hunters are in for a nasty surprise.


	7. Matchmaker Annie

_  
**"The Secret War" - chapter 7**   
_   
**Wednesday January 3, 1996**

I rang in the New Year with another recruiting trip. It's been easy. Mac didn't blink an eye when I told him I'd be taking some time off to visit some friends over the next few months. Neither did HQ. I see how James and Ung managed to organize the Hunters. Nobody gave a damn. 

This time I dropped in on Stacy Remington, who interned with me back in 1987. I'd always mentored as many new Watchers as I could – saw it as a professional duty. Now those Watchers were turning into the core of anti-Hunter cells across the globe. Stacy worked in the London office, and she'd been Watching Thackeray back in '93 when Hunters took him out. Her Closing Report had insisted there was something fishy about the "Challenge", and pointed out that there was no Quickening. It should have set off warning bells all through the organization. Instead, it got buried.

Bastards.

Stacy was eager to sign-up with me once she heard that the Hunters were active again. We talked about how to choose two to four cell members that she could trust. Then we set-up a book code, regular drop communications, and an emergency phone system.

The recruiting was going well. Almost too well. I had over 40 young men and women eager to oppose the Hunters. Damned if I knew what to do with them.

The Watchers were changing. And while I hoped for the best, it seemed like the direction they were changing was a betrayal of a three thousand year legacy. My mentor Ian was dead. The wise men who had once formed the Tribunal were replaced by Jack and his cronies. They might not be working with the Hunters, but they sure weren't doing anything to stop them. How could a small group of field agents and researchers turn things around?

I needed a little inspiration. So I called Matchmaker Annie.

Annie was the Watcher's own version of Rosie the Riveter. In 1940, the Watchers were suffering from a desperate manpower shortage. Many of our best agents had been drafted, captured, or killed. Others, in a sudden burst of patriotism, signed up with their own national covert services on both sides of the war. The Tribunal called up all able-bodied retirees. When that wasn't enough, they took a truly radical step. They started recruiting women from Watcher families.

Annie Whittaker was the freshly bereaved young widow of a Watcher field agent. She was eager to continue her husband's work, and soon had a minor administrative position in the Personnel Department. She eventually rose to be in charge of Field Assignments based on sheer competence and (it was whispered) a knack for office politics that bordered on blackmail. For thirty years Annie had run the department as her personal fiefdom. She had an eidetic memory and held final veto power over any assignment of a field agent to Immortal. Annie sometimes made some strange choices, but the success rate for agents she personally selected was the best the Watchers had seen in 800 years. That's how she earned the nickname "Matchmaker". Annie matched Watchers with Immortals.

I prayed every Sunday to the Virgin Mary when I was stuck into Research after the Academy, asking her to inspire Matchmaker Annie and get me a field assignment. I'd never personally met the woman, but the fact a double-amputee vet got a shot at fieldwork was thanks to her. When Annie was forcibly retired in 1987 she moved to the outskirts of London.

I looked up her number, called, and asked if I could visit. Two hours and a pricey cab ride later I slowly made my way up the steps of her row house and knocked.

The door sprang open. I was faced with an imposing elderly woman in a hand-knitted white sweater, bent but still tall and broad-shouldered. Her gray hair held faint streaks of red and was bound back into a severe bun. She looked me up and down. I felt myself come to attention.

"Joe Dawson," Annie greeted me coolly. "Come in before you catch your death out there." She limped backwards, favoring her right hip. I followed her in and closed the door behind me. She led me through a narrow passageway and past a stairway barricaded with a stack of books and a cat carrier.

"I haven't been able to make it up those stairs in 8 months," she explained, waving me to a seat at a small table set with two cups, two plates, a vase of flowers, and a packet of cookies. We both eased our way into the chairs. Two cats stared resentfully at me from a tattered window seat.

"Tea?" Annie offered, already pouring from a silver teapot. She tipped a little milk into my cup, and then picked up a fancy bowl of sugar cubes and some little tongs. "One lump or two?"

I felt trapped by this fancy teatime ritual. Whatever I'd expected, this wasn't it. "Ah … two, please, Ms. Whittaker."

"Sweet tooth. Thought so," she muttered under her breath. "Call me Annie," she instructed. "Everyone does. Whether they've earned the right or not. How was your trip?"

"Fine," I replied. "Took a little longer than I thought it would."

Annie offered me a cookie with a murmured "Hobnob?" I shook my head to politely refuse. Annie sloshed some tea into her own cup, grabbed a cookie, and dunked it in.

"There," she said, biting into the cookie before it could collapse back into the tea. "I've exhausted my store of table manners and small talk both." Annie dusted off her hands. "So, shall we get to business?" The snap in her voice told me I wasn't having tea with a little old lady any more. I was being interviewed by a superior officer.

"Business?" I asked, thrown by the switch.

"Watcher business. The unofficial kind. The kind you've been up to here in London."

Shit. Did she know I'd been meeting with Stacy? How? I had to stonewall, and let her talk. "I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. I was just in town visiting some friends."

Annie's stern face cracked a smile. "Not bad. The ma'am was a nice touch. It might be pleasant to spend the afternoon fencing with you, but I'm not as patient as I once was. So, I'm going to lay my cards on the table."

She pushed the flower arrangement aside to stare directly at me. "I've had my eye on you since I first heard there was a soldier-boy with no legs in the Academy who wanted a field assignment. Brave, I thought, and stubborn, and maybe suicidal. When I saw you play at your graduation I knew you had potential."

Annie paused. "Did you happen to bring your guitar?" she asked.

"No, not today." It's hard to get around with more than one bag when I'm traveling alone.

"Pity. Don Salzer gave me one of your recordings, but I would have enjoyed hearing you play again." She shrugged. "In any case, I knew that you had potential. You just needed the right influences. And I found you a good one."

Annie picked up a cookie and stuffed it in her mouth. I waited for her to finish chewing before I asking, "Influences?"

"Duncan MacLeod!" she crowed. "There aren't many heroes, in our world or theirs. I knew he'd be a good match for you. I just didn't think you would actually talk to him!"

"Well, I had to," I automatically defended myself. "You see, he came into the store..."

"And then last year," Annie interrupted, "did you really invite him to Headquarters?" She looked as if she were about to burst out laughing.

"It was an emergency." I muttered, feeling my face heat. So maybe it hadn't been the brightest move of my career.

"The first person who told me Duncan MacLeod had been seen with you at HQ, I thought she was drunk. I had to verify with three sources before I believed it. I just wish I had been there to see their faces!" Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"I had to," I said, ripping the conversation back to my earlier point, "because of the Hunters."

The amusement drained from Annie's face. "The Hunters. James Horton. He was family, isn't that right?" I nodded. She lay one knobbed, arthritic hand down on the table between us and inspected it.

"I told them," she continued softly. "I'd been telling them for twenty years that there was no good match for the Kurgan. He was a beast. We had no one fit to Watch the Kurgan, and if we did, he'd be the sort of man we shouldn't allow in the organization."

Annie sighed and picked up her teacup, cradling it in her hands. "But then Horton volunteered, and the Tribunal overrode my decision. I should have fought it, but there were other issues that seemed more important at the time." She looked up to meet my eyes. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

It struck me as absurd. An old woman in her cluttered, stuffy home, apologizing to a beat-up guy past his prime for James's descent into madness and murder. Like we were the ones in control. "Look, Annie, once James set his mind on something, nobody got in his way."

She smiled sadly. "No? You did." A shot, a falling body, Mac taking the gun from my numb fingers and tossing it into a Paris river. James. Annie was still talking. "… something needs to be done. And no other Watcher of your generation has what it takes to oppose them."

My voice creaked. "You think shooting at James qualifies me for this? I don't think I'm buying what your selling, lady."

Annie sipped her tea and stared at me over the rim. "No, but a certain degree of ruthlessness may be necessary." Her calculating green eyes reminded me of Methos for a moment. "You have charisma, you are a recognized leader within the organization, and your previous actions against the Hunters make you a natural rallying point." She put the cup down. "Besides, you have already begun. I'm just offering to support your efforts."

I decided to push back. "What efforts? You've got a lot to say, but where do you get your information?"

Annie put her teacup down and looked away, like a pretty little thing caught flirting. "Oh, I have my sources, Joe. You'd be amazed at how many Watchers drop by regularly for tea." Following her glance, I see a modern laptop stashed under the love seat. It's a perfect match to the one in my bag, that lets me log-on to the encrypted network from anywhere in the world. Her eyes meet mine as she raises her chin, daring me to make something of it. I shrug back at her. Watcher security isn't my problem.

Annie nods slowly. Message received, and that seems to make up her mind for her. "I'll introduce you to my contacts, Joe. Eugenia will probably be the most useful to you. She's the head librarian for the Paris Headquarters. Researchers talk to her like a drunk does to his bartender. Any gossip worth repeating, Eugenia gets it first."

I shift forward on my seat. "Has she heard what the Tribunal is up to?"

Annie cocks her head to the side. "The Tribunal? She probably knows their agendas better than they do. Why?"

I let out the thing that's been gnawing at me for months, ever since Methos brought me that damned printout. "Do you think the Hunters are operating under orders from the Tribunal?"

"Them?" Annie sniffed, disdain clear across her face. "Shapiro and the other Tribunals wouldn't dare. They'd rather watch the Watchers rot away around them than actually step up and do something about it."

With that reassurance, we chatted for a while longer. I told her about Fatima. It was a relief to get that off my chest. Annie knew what it was like to send people into harm's way. I kept the rest to myself, of course. No names of my contacts, no Adam, definitely nothing about who Adam really was. There are secrets, and there are secrets, right?

I memorized a list of contacts. Annie knew who was connected to who; the entire web of friendship, loyalty, and expediency that bound the organization together. She promised to get word out that Matchmaker Annie thought Joe Dawson had a good head on his shoulders. We set up a communication protocol in case we needed to get in touch again.

As my cab pulled up outside, I turned to say goodbye. "Annie … you know this could be dangerous?"

Annie's lip twisted and a deep bitterness flashed in her eyes. "Really? I'd best reconsider then. How will my cats manage without me?" And I got that. I really did. It's a high wire act. And I didn't even have any cats to miss me if I fell. She reached out and grasped my right hand between hers. "Godspeed, Joe."

Then I was back out in the brisk sunlit air. I had a lot to think about. Planning and plotting. With Annie at my back, I could make this work.

  
 **Monday January 15, 1996**

Emily Hargrove, my new intern, arrived today. Fatima asked me to take her on, last time we spoke. So I had some high expectations. Emily was a tough, non-nonsense blond in her 30's from New Jersey. She'd been the mistress of a small-time crime boss in New Jersey. The boss was an Immortal, and Emily had seen enough to guess he wasn't like other men. Instead of having her killed, he told her his secret.

Emily liked secrets. She liked finding them out, and she was good at keeping them. When her boss eventually lost a Challenge, the Watchers brought her in. She seemed solid at first glance. I'd do my best to teach her the job, like any intern. But I didn't know her well enough to bring her all the way in. Not even on a dead friend's say-so.


	8. The Dark Quickening

**Sunday February 25, 1996**

This is a nightmare. A fucking nightmare. I really thought Dark Quickenings were a myth. Sure, Coltec was acting strange, but sometimes good men go bad. I learned that lesson in the 'Nam when I was 18. Dark Quickenings were just a scary story, like people rising from the dead. Like legends of lightning from a clear sky on the battlefield. Like Methos, the oldest Immortal. I was a fool.

I’ve seen a lot of Quickenings, and that one was different. The fires, Mac’s screams … that lightning reached for MacLeod like it was hungry for him. It was some vision of hell. Afterwards, Mac gave me the slip, and he hasn't done that for years. I finally gave up looking, called in Emily to continue the search, and went back to the bar. Mac was sitting there, drinking, like nothing had happened, but he wouldn’t talk to me. And then he hit a woman.

If Duncan MacLeod has one serious flaw, it’s that he’s too gentle with women, even his enemies. Kristin, Annie; I could make a list. So when I saw him backhand a woman to the ground I knew we were in deep shit.

I stepped in and got punched in the face for my troubles. My staff wanted to get involved. Bad idea. Mac'd just been playing with the woman and me. He's a master of a dozen forms of unarmed combat; if he'd wanted me down, I wouldn't have been standing up again. The glint in his eye said he was willing to step it all the way up. I kept my people back, and he took off.

I tailed MacLeod to the dojo and watched him pick a fight with Richie. I shot him before he could take the kid’s head. I broke my Watcher Oath into little bitty pieces and I’m starting in on the Immortals’ Rules of the Game. I interfered in a Challenge, and I’d do it again. Because that was no Challenge. That was a goddamn slaughter, with Richie as the lamb. Besides, Richie'd saved my life once. Today I just got a chance to return the favor.

I told Richie to get out of there, and then I tied up MacLeod. It wasn't easy. I got a whole new appreciation for the term "dead weight". I hoped maybe coming back, he'd have snapped out of it. I wish.

Mac came roaring back to life. He threatened me, insulted me, did everything but spin his head around and spew pea soup. I had his katana in my hands. But I couldn't do it. I let him go. When he grabbed his katana back and put it to my throat, I reckon that was a near thing. I wasn't scared. I didn't believe he'd do it. Which is pretty goddamn stupid, considering that the only thing stopped him from taking Richie's head was me. What can I say? I'm a little slow sometimes.

Mac just shook his head and stalked out of there. Thank God for Emily. She'd been camped outside the dojo waiting to re-acquire Mac. Emily tracked him to a storage facility, then to the docks. By daybreak, he was gone. Only two ships left port during those 4 hours. MacLeod is either heading to Japan or to France. He's got some history in both places, so it's a toss-up.

The Mac I know would go to France. But this guy … I don't know.

Now, now I'm scared. Mac's out there on the ocean, alone with the monsters in his head. I just don't know if I'm more scared for him, or for the rest of us.

 **Monday February 26, 1996**

I’ve got no idea where to look. The Watchers have heard myths about Dark Quickenings, but there’s not a single documented occurrence. The only thing we are sure of is that Darius went through some kind of "light quickening" back in the day, turned him from a warlord to a saint. But Darius has been dead over two years, and his Chronicles don’t say much about it.

I've left 5 messages with Methos's service in the past 12 hours, and he still hasn't gotten back to me. Is there anyone else who might know anything about it?

Jean-Pierre! He was Darius’s student, and curious as a cat. He's bound to know all about that quickening. I scrabble through my desk drawers and find the letter that arrived from Venezuela last week. I skip down to his number and the name he’s using these days. 011, country code 58, number; there, it’s ringing.

"Bueno."

Was that Jean-Pierre’s voice? Hard to be sure, from just one word. "Hi, could I speak to ‘Miguel Velasquez’, please?"

"Joe! I’m so glad you called, I wasn’t sure…"

"Jean-Pierre." I cut him off. "I need some information, fast." Never thought I’d say that to an Immortal. Maybe it’s some kinda karmic payback for all the times Mac’s come asking me for intel.

"Of course, Joe." I hear him put down the phone and start cajoling some people on his end in Spanish.

"My roommates won’t over-hear, but I can’t vouch for the phone lines, Joe. The young woman who has been Watching over me is most rigorous in the performance of her duties."

I’ll worry about Theresa later. She owes me one, anyway.

"Jean-Pierre, what can you tell me about Darius’s Light Quickening?"

"I have heard several versions of that story, Joe. Do you want to hear the one closest to Darius’s own memory?"

"As close as you can get, Jean-Pierre. I need the truth on this one."

"Very well. Once upon a time there was an Immortal. As a child he was strong as a bear, quick as a fox, and proud as a hawk. He grew to be a great war-leader among his people. His taste for power grew with every victory, and soon men flocked to his standard. With every tribe he conquered his army grew. Men cried that this was Alexander reborn, and the Immortal believed them. He took the name of Darius, the only king powerful enough to challenge Alexander. His armies swept through Central Europe and sacked Rome. The Immortal had vowed to take his men all the way to the Western Sea, and claim all of Europe as his own."

"Darius and his army reached the gates of a small walled city known as Paris. It was a still, gray fall day. A lone Immortal stood before the horde, barring the way. This was an ancient custom, that Immortals should defend their home in single combat. Darius had seen it before, and he hungered for both the Quickening and the worship of his men following this proof of his power before them. He rode to face the old one. He dismounted and challenged. The old one neither moved nor spoke. Darius taunted him, but the Immortal would not respond. Finally, feeling the restlessness of his army behind him, Darius attacked. The Immortal did not defend himself. Darius took the head, and waited for the Quickening."

"There was a blinding light as if the sun himself burned at the gate of the city. The army saw Darius fall to his knees. And Darius saw … everything. He saw the history of the Immortal he had killed. He saw the hearts of the men of his army, hungry for slaughter. He saw the fear of those huddled inside the city, and the love they felt for their protector. He heard the old one’s voice, speaking to him of choices. He saw sunlight glinting on the sea; just a few days march to the west. Darius saw the past, the present, and perhaps even the future in that Quickening. He abandoned his oath and chose a new path."

"A conqueror had fallen to his knees; a healer stood up. Darius sent his men home to their crops and families. When his own Lieutenant would have Challenged him, Darius retreated to Holy Ground and tried to reason with him there, rather than fight. And there he stayed, through flood and flame, bombs and plague."

The story faded away. I cracked my neck. "Jean-Pierre, that is no goddamned help at all."

"What has happened?" Now he sounded worried. And so I told him.

Jean-Pierre listened, with none of the interruptions I had come to expect from him, until near the end. "Joe, why didn't you take his head?"

"What kind of question is that?" I asked, angry.

"A very important one," was his quiet reply.

"I thought … no." I was back in the moment. A jeer distorted MacLeod's face. The stench of my sweat and his fresh blood hung in my nostrils. My friend kissed the blade and dared me to kill him. "I felt that Mac was still in there, that he could be saved."

"Then we will save him, " Jean-Pierre promised.

"How do you know it's even possible?" I had to ask.

"You're a perceptive man, Joe. I trust your instincts. But a Mortal won't be able to save him. If any could, it would have been you. It will take an Immortal."

"He nearly killed Richie." I interrupted.

"It will be dangerous. Duncan is dangerous… He's not coming here, is he?" Jean-Pierre asked, alarmed.

"No chance of that, Jean-Pierre," I reassured him. "He's either headed to Japan or France."

"Good." Jean-Pierre paused for a moment. "Duncan loves to fight. He loves to win. I could see that in a single spar. Only his heart kept from loving to kill. And Immortals are … rewarding, in a way that Mortals are not."

"You talking about the Quickening?"

"Yes." There was a rich silence after that single word.

I could hear there was a whole lot more to it than that, but I was in a hurry. "So, what do we do about Mac?"

"You will need to find an Immortal who can confront him. Someone he respects; a teacher, or an elder." I could get both Mac's teacher and eldest Immortal in the goddamned world.

"Can do. Then what?"

"Then he will need some magic to help release him from the Dark Quickening."

I nearly groaned out loud. This is what you get when you ask a guy who believes in voodoo for help. "Magic? Jean-Pierre, that's not, ah, gonna be easy to come by."

"Joe…" he tsked through the phone at me. "Duncan is possessed by spirits of the evil dead. Were you thinking a cold shower would cleanse him of their influence?"

Great. Now I get to explain to Connor MacLeod and Methos that they need to find Mac and lay some kinda magic spell on him. "I'll see what I can come up with. Anything else that might help?"

"Yes. Pray for him, Joe. As will I."

I left a message on with Methos's service and then sat down at my computer to find Connor MacLeod. Turns out he was on some kind of business trip in Hong Kong. In a way, that was good news. Connor was in the right part of the world to intercept Mac if he ended up in Japan. But how could I get in touch with him?

Connor was going by the name of Russell Nash these days. I called 411 for the number for Nash Antiques in New York. When I rang, a woman picked up.

"Nash Antiques, how may I help you?" Her voice was aged and a bit distracted.

"Is this Rachel Weinstein?" Rachel had been with Connor ever since he rescued her from the Nazis during WWII.

"Yes, who is speaking?"

"My name is Joe Dawson. I'm a friend of Russell's cousin, Duncan MacLeod."

"And how is Duncan?" The friendly words were spoken in a cautious tone.

"Duncan is _(possessed, insane, homicidal, and scaring the hell out of me)_ … in trouble. I really need to speak to Mr. Nash about it."

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Nash isn't available at this time."

"This really is an emergency. Do you have a number where I could reach him?"

The response was icy cold. "I didn't say that he wasn't here, just that he's not available at the moment." Crap, I tipped her off that I know Connor isn't in New York. I'm slipping, and she's about to hang up.

"Wait!" I let the desperation I felt creep into my voice. "Duncan is in terrible danger, and it's the kind of thing that only a kinsman can help with. Could you pass along a message and my phone number? Please."

After a moment, she agreed stiffly.

After facing that lion down, Connor wasn't quite as bad as I'd thought. Seems Mac had mentioned me by name, and Connor was too worried about him to fuck around.

Methos called 4 hours later, just as I was getting ready for bed. He asked me to call him back at a fake number. I got the real number by a simple rotation code we'd worked out before he left. I drove to a new pay phone.

International calls get the funny sounding ring. 2 rings. Three rings. Four. Five. He picked up, sounding rushed. "Joe?"

"Adam." I'd been wanting to talk to Methos for 4 months. And now I had nothing to say.

"Are you sure that it was a Dark Quickening?" Like he wanted me to tell him it was all some big joke.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. You ever seen one before?"

Silence. The moment stretched out, long enough for a seed of hope to sprout. Methos was 5,000 years old. He'd been there, done that, got the toga, right? He would know how to fix this.

A single word, almost too quiet to hear. "No." Hope shriveled in my chest.

"Well, hey, glad we could come up with a little something new for you." I tried a chuckle. Even to my own ears, it came out cracked and grisly.

"Look, like I said in the message, there's a 50-50 chance Mac will be sailing into a French port. Connor MacLeod's covering Japan. I talked to a friend of Darius's about this. He said Mac needed to be confronted by a teacher or an elder, and that it would take magic to cure him. Can you handle that?"

"Of course." Tired but confident.

"How's Alexa?" I asked quickly, before he hung up.

Methos sounded like he was grieving already. "Worse than she was a month ago, better than she'll be in another week. MacLeod's timing is as disastrous as ever."

"Give her a hug for me."

"I will, Joe." And with that his voice switched gears, cool and professional. "I'll be on the coast of France by late Wednesday morning. Call as soon as you get word of his arrival."

I agreed, and he was gone without another word. Adam always did have terrible phone manners.

With the two of them in position, I had nothing to do but wait. And pray. Just in case.


	9. Introducing Dr. Narath Ung

**Monday March 4, 1996**

One week, no word.

The days were busy. I was running the bar. Coordinating the Seacouver-area Watchers. Tracking the actions of each of my anti-Hunter cells. Checking in with Eugenia daily, to see if her researchers had uncovered anything more about Dark Quickenings.

My nights were tougher. It'd been a toss-up between the guitar and the bottle; so far, the guitar was winning. I played way into the wee hours last night. You can sink a lot into the blues and it just makes you sound better on stage.

When I lurched into the office this morning, I found a fax sitting in my machine. In precise hand-written letters, it read:

>  _Mr. Dawson –_
> 
>  _I recently obtained some information that may be of great interest to you. I thought we might meet to discuss it. I will be in the Airport Lounge of Seacouver International today, from 1 to 2 pm. There is no need to RSVP._
> 
>  _\- Narath Ung_

  
I arrived at the Airport Lounge just before 1 o’clock. Ung was waiting at the entrance, in a conservative charcoal gray suit, wielding a metallic briefcase. He was smaller than I remembered, 5’3, with short dark hair, mirror-dark eyes, and a smooth, courteous smile. He ushered me up a short flight of stairs to a private little mezzanine table. It was a convenient spot, if you had two working legs. At least no one could get within eavesdropping range without us seeing them.

He asked if I cared to order anything. I might sit down to talk with the enemy, but I wasn't breaking bread with him. Ung had a cup of black coffee and packet of M&Ms in front of his seat. The M&Ms were emptied out on the table and sorted into piles by color. The empty packet was folded into a neat square. That’s pretty compulsive. I wondered if he had to eat them in some special order.

“I’m glad you were able to join me on such short notice, Mr. Dawson. It’s been, what, 8 months since I debriefed you after the Kalas incident?”

“About that, yeah.”

“And how are Lynn and Catherine these days?”

Was asking after my sister and niece meant to be small talk, or a subtle threat? Whatever. This guy was a professional at screwing with people’s heads. But with Mac lost, I had to see if he knew something. “You said you had some information for me. Do you?”

“Yes, I certainly do. I understand that your subject, Duncan MacLeod, has been behaving atypically recently?”

“If that’s what you want to call a Dark Quickening, yeah.”

“A Dark Quickening. Yes. Of course, even without such an … extraordinary event, it has been a difficult few years for him.” Ung scooped up the pile of red M&Ms from the table. He idly inspected them, and then began dropping them from a height of a few inches. Each one made a quiet plink as it hit the table. “The danger,” plink “the pain,” plink “the betrayals,” plink “the fighting,” plink “the grief, and” plink “the killings.” Ung carefully moved the red candies back into a single pile, remarking, “I’ve known strong men to shatter under those stresses.”

He looked back at me. “But, you know all of this. Have you received Louis Petiton’s report yet?”

“I don’t know any Louis Petiton.”

“Well, these things can take time, traveling through official channels. Louis is stationed in Le Havre, France. He observed MacLeod disembarking from a ship in the port there approximately six hours ago.”

My heart skipped a beat. Was Mac all right? Could I believe a word that came out of Ung's mouth? “Did Petiton say anything about how he looked or acted?”

“Yes, his report is quite detailed.” He lifted the briefcase up onto the table and opened it, lifting out a manila file folder. He left it on the table in easy reach, and then pulled out some reading glasses. He placed them on the bridge of his nose with some ceremony. I resisted the urge to grab the file. Ung closed the briefcase and slid it back under the table. He peered over the glasses and offered me a reassuring smile before opening the folder. Can't believe I bought that act when Ung interviewed me last year.

“Apparently MacLeod spotted Louis, and cornered him in a phone booth. He then stole Louis’s wallet, found the pictures of his family, and threatened to find and torture Louis’s wife and child unless he were told the whereabouts of a certain Immortal … Ah, yes, Sean Burns.”

I could barely hear him over the thunder of my own heart. Not true, not true, God don’t let Mac have done those things. Ung paused, looking up at me. “Some water, Mr. Dawson? You don’t look well.”

I shook my head no.

“There is no need to be alarmed. Louis escaped the encounter physically unharmed. He does sound rather traumatized, though. Apparently MacLeod concluded the interview by saying that he was able to spot Watchers, and would kill any that he saw from now on.”

I croaked, “You’re lying.”

“Now, Mr. Dawson, this report will arrive in your hands within a few days. I merely came into possession of the information more quickly. Why would I lie?”

“Maybe because you want MacLeod dead?”

A faint look of surprise crossed Ung’s face. “By no means. That was your brother’s campaign. A brilliant man, and excellent leader, but he did tend to work from the heart rather than the head when making such decisions. No, it’s always been my policy to leave headhunters in the Game as long as possible.”

“Mac is no headhunter!”

“No? You know better than anyone how many heads he has taken in the past two and a half years. Still, let’s not quibble over terms. Regardless of his motives, in purely quantitative terms, he is effectively moving my program forward.”

“This would be the program where every Immortal ends up dead, right?”

He nodded calmly and sipped his coffee. “Yes, that is correct. But I have no interest in seeing MacLeod dead at this time. I have no personal interest in him at all. Unlike you.”

Suddenly I had Ung’s full attention. He watched me with the complete focus of a new lover, an obsessive fan, or a very good therapist. I couldn’t think. “What the hell are you playing at, Ung?”

“I would have no difficulty with Watching Duncan MacLeod become a monster. But I thought that you might.”

“He’s probably just going to see Sean Burns to get help!”

“That is possible, yes. But if not … Mr. Dawson, you are a man of strong convictions and great loyalty. You are one of very few Watchers with the courage to act on your beliefs. Your brother James admired these qualities in you, as do I. That is why I would like to offer my assistance.” First Methos, then Annie, and now Ung. Pretty compliments camouflaging the pungi sticks underneath.

“Assistance with what?”

“If you should decide to take action, to prevent Duncan MacLeod from harming any further innocent Mortals and Immortals; my people will be at your disposal.”

Duncan MacLeod, threatening a man's wife and children. I didn't want to believe it, but I did. Flashes of Mac knocking me down, stalking Richie like a great cat, holding the blade to my throat. Christ.

Ung was Watching me from across the table. My heart was pounding again. I had to pull my shit together. I closed my eyes for a moment and played the opening bars of "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" in my head. The rhythm of the song settled into my blood, slowed my pulse and breathing. I opened my eyes to see Ung leaning across the table towards me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. And that, that was very creepy.

I cleared my throat. "You mind?" Ung pulled back out of my space like he'd been burned. He stared at me, forehead creased. That ice-cold crazy fuck actually expected me to put out a hit on Mac.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Ung."

He covered up pretty quick, handed me a business card. "In case you should change your mind, Mr. Dawson. Now if you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch." And he high-tailed it outta there.

I called Methos from a pay phone on my way out of the terminal. I let him know that Mac had arrived in LeHavre six hours ago. I told him Mac had threatened a Watcher and was looking for Sean Burns, but left out the part about Ung. He didn't need to be worrying about that, not now. Methos told me he could handle MacLeod like this, but he needed everyone else to keep their distance. Especially me and Connor MacLeod. "One crazy Highlander at a time is plenty," he said.

So next I called up Connor MacLeod, and lied like a rug. Heavy seas reported in the Pacific. Nothing dangerous, but the shipping lines were all behind schedule. Mac's ship should dock within 48 hours. I'd call once I heard anything more. Connor's response was dry. "Next time you feel the need to report that you don't know anything, Dawson, check the time difference." Hopefully Mac would be able to talk Connor out of putting me at the business end of a katana when he found out he'd been played.

I dropped into the seat of my car with a sigh and pulled out Ung's business card. No name, no words, just an international phone number. I pushed the lighter in and waited for it to pop. Methos was on Mac's trail. Everything would be fine. The lighter popped out with a click. I pulled it out and held the corner of Ung's card to the ring. 'Don’t limit your options yet,' Methos's voice whispered in my head. I blew the flame out just as the card started to smolder.

I wouldn't need it. Definitely not. If it came down to a choice between Ung's rifle and axe, or Jean-Pierre's magic and prayer...

I pulled myself straight behind the wheel and bowed my head. A boyhood of my grandmother's novenas made the choice clear.

“Most holy apostle, St. Jude Thaddeus, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, the name of the traitor has caused you to be forgotten by many. But the Church honors and invokes you universally as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. I pray for Duncan MacLeod, helpless and alone. Make use, I implore you, of that particular privilege given to you, to bring visible and speedy help where help is almost despaired of. Come to his assistance in this great need that he may receive the consolation and help of heaven in all his necessities, tribulations, and sufferings. I promise, O blessed St. Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favor, to always honor you as my special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage devotion to you."

"He's a good man. Don't let Mac do anything he couldn't forgive himself for. Help Methos bring him back to us. Amen.”

I took out my handkerchief, blew my nose, stuck it back in my pocket along with Ung's card, and started the long drive back to the bar.


	10. Human Error

**Thursday March 7 1996**

Mac's okay. The first news I got was a quick and cheerful wake-up call from Adam Pierson. MacLeod was back to normal, the most amazing thing; it was all in his official report. Adam was off to Greece to meet up with Alexa. The official report was pretty damn thin, not that I expected anything different. 

MacLeod had taken Sean Burns' head. They were old friends, and that wasn't going to be easy for Mac to live with. I called Mac at the barge later, from a pay phone. Rachel MacLeod was staying with him for a few days, which was good to hear. When Mac asked hesitantly if I would need a ride from the airport, I told him that I had some things I needed to do here in Seacouver. Wouldn't be able to get away for a few months. His quiet, "Alright, Joe," almost broke my heart.

MacLeod thinks I'm afraid of him. And it's a terrible thing to leave him thinking that. But Ung is one nasty piece of work. He tried to use Mac against me. He misplayed his hand this time, but I can't count on him making that mistake again. MacLeod is safer with an ocean between us. At least this way he won't ask any awkward questions.

  
 **Sunday March 10 1996**

I assigned Greg Trudeau to Watch MacLeod for me in Paris. Greg was a good man; smart, loyal, able to blend into a crowd. But he had no memory at all for faces. In our business, that's a serious handicap.

Greg was grateful to be given a shot at fieldwork. He swore I wouldn't regret it, and told me he'd spend all his free time studying the files of Mac's known Immortal friends and enemies so that he could recognize any that showed up. 'Course, I'd picked him because of his problem, not in spite of it. Any other field agent in France might recognize Adam Pierson, should Methos show up on Mac's doorstep again. Not Greg.

  
 **Saturday March 23 1996**

The report Greg filed today was even more confusing than usual. He thought Amanda had stolen another Immortal's crystal necklace. There was a hostage situation and some kind of gun battle in broad daylight on the Nezy crossing, but I couldn't make heads or tails of the rest of it.

The other players in whatever went down over the past few days were vague descriptions: "unknown dark-haired male, possibly Immortal", "unknown balding male, possibly Immortal", and "unknown large-nosed male, possibly Immortal." Since Mac was friendly with the last guy, I guessed it might be Methos. Pretty damn frustrating, trying to piece together the real story from half a world away.

  
 _No Quickening was observed._

Immortals didn't usually travels in packs, but it was the fact there was no Quickening on the Nezy-sur-Seine Bridge that tipped me off Hunters might have been involved. Screw this – I had to know what was going on. I called the barge from a pay phone.

I chewed out Mac for not calling to let me know what happened. I chewed out Methos for not coming to me in the first place. Why steal the Methuselah Stone when I could just have requisitioned the damned thing? He said he wasn't sure if I would agree to it. I told him that, for a smart guy, he was an idiot. Amanda I thanked politely for keeping the both of them alive. "A girl does her best, Joe" she replied, sounding quite pleased with herself.

More Watchers gone bad. Sounds like the start of a dirty joke, but I'm not laughing. Amanda's Watcher and Stern, head of Western Europe, were both involved. Methos couldn't tell me if Stern was acting under Ung's orders, against them, or completely independently. Either way, it was one hell of a close call. I should have been there. But they're big boys and girls, and the last thing Mac, Amanda, and Methos need is me drawing Ung's attention to them.

  
 **Tuesday March 26, 1996**

>   
> _We Ring the Bell …  
>  For Watchers Daniel Geiger, Arthur Vizcarrondo, and Nathan Stern. Mr. Stern was the head of the Western European Division. The three men died in and around the Nezy-sur-Seine Bridge. Any Watcher with information regarding this tragedy is urged to contact Cameron Whittaker of the Security Department._   
> 

Adam and I are the only Watchers who know what really happened. And telling the truth could earn either one of us a death sentence. Me, for being friends with Immortals. Him, for being one. Greg's account is the only official record of what happened. Maybe someday, someone will connect the dots and realize that Greg's report explains why three Watchers ended up dead on that bridge. Maybe that someone will have enough guts to go ask MacLeod or Amanda what happened. And maybe I'll win the lottery.

One more secret. Throw it on the pile. Sometimes I wonder how I sleep at night. When I sleep at night.

  
 **March 27, 1996**

I lost over two grand in tonight's poker game. I'll need to take more shifts at the bar myself to cover payroll, but it was worth it.

Last Wednesday of the month I throw a poker game for any Watchers in the area who're interested. I started the tradition when I became supervisor for the Pacific Northwest, and kept it up after they demoted me. It was a good way to get to know your people. And that's what tonight was all about.

I told everyone I was feeling flush, and wanted to try out a new system. I called, I raised, I never backed down. I paid through the nose to see every single hand. Because I had to know who was bluffing. I wasn't sure who to trust, and those tells could be the difference between life and death.

My intern Emily started folding every hand, which was a damned interesting response. The Collettes won $300 from me and headed home to look after their baby. The rest of us kept playing. Six hours later, I'd got what I came for. Mike had one hell of a poker face, but he held real still when he was bluffing. Probably had trained himself out of some movement tell.

I've got a great memory. Looking back for those moments of stillness, I found that Mike had been lying to me all along.

Worm in the apple, serpent in paradise, and the assistant manager in my own goddamned bar. Mike was a Hunter.


	11. The Cold War Heats Up

**Friday April 5, 1996**

There was a message blinking on my machine. When I hit the play button I heard "Joe? Joe are you there? Joe, pick up!" The voice was familiar. I couldn't put a name to it, but it had the raw, near-hysterical sound of a recruit after his first firefight. "Joe, Aaron's been... He's … Call me at the emergency number." As the message ended I recognized who was speaking. It was Missael, a member of the New York cell. He was a happy daredevil of a soccer player from Columbia. 'Course, he always insisted on calling it "football". Aaron was an Israeli vet. The two of them had been joined at the hip since they met at the Academy 5 years ago. Rumor had it they were more than friends, but I'd never figured it was any of my business to ask. Either way, this was gonna be bad.

I called the emergency number from a public phone cross-town. Missael picked up on the first ring.

"Joe?" His voice had the dull, ground-down rasp of a man who's spent all his tears.

"I'm here, Missael." Not there, where I might have done some good, but here, in a cozy little phone booth on the other side of the country.

"They killed Aaron, Joe. They shot him."

Missael wouldn't be able to take sympathy right now. "Report!" I snapped.

"Yes sir. We had tracked the Immortal Cristophe to the Bentley Hotel. We believed that he was the imminent target of a Hunter hit team. I pulled the fire alarm. Aaron was supposed to meet me in Cristophe's room, but he wasn't there. I left a threatening note for Cristophe, to make him head into deeper cover where he would be safe. Aaron still hadn't arrived, so I took the stairs down to the parking garage. I heard shots." Missael's voice choked off into silence.

"How many shots?" I pushed him.

"Three, possibly four. There was an echo in the stairwell, so I couldn't be sure. When I reached our car, Aaron was lying on the ground next to it. He had taken a large-caliber round to the chest and was not breathing. There was a lot of blood." Poor kid must have been frantic.

"Did he have his gun out?" No answer. "Missael, did he get any shots off?"

"Yes. Yes, he did. Aaron's gun had been fired, and there was a blood trail nearby. I … I wasn't able to gather any more information before the police arrived."

"Were you spotted at the scene?" That could be a disaster.

"No, sir. I got away clean."

I thought it through. There was no way of knowing who fired the first shot, and it didn't really matter. Blood had been spilled. Our little Cold War had just gone hot.

"Missael, you're going to need to keep your head down for a few days. Dig in at the New York HQ. Don't go anywhere alone. In fact, why don't you bunk with Ellen until I give the all-clear?" Ellen was the other member of their cell.

"Ellen's out of town on assignment, Joe." Shit. He shouldn't be alone right now. Who else did I know in New York? Maybe Connor's Watcher? First I had to get him somewhere safe, and then I could worry about his state of mind.

"We're pretty sure the hit teams are travelers, but there is probably a local Hunter cell. Have you spotted any possible members?"

"I have a few ideas," he claimed darkly. Shit.

"Missael, no. You cannot go after them." No response. "Aaron would not want you to do this!"

Missael's response was eerily calm. "Yes, he would."

"Missael!" The hum of a disconnected line was all that remained.

It's not like this was a surprise. Methos and I had figured it was bound to happen, sooner or later. And I had recruited Missael and Aaron knowing it might well get them killed. I'd warned them it could be dangerous. They just didn't believe anything bad could happen to them. Just like a gung-ho kid who signed up for the Marines back in '67.

A half-hour later I had placed classified ads in 6 major newspapers around the world. The pre-arranged code would let all of my people know that we had a shooting war on our hands. Even if I had wanted to pull out, it was too late now.

  
 **Tuesday April 9, 1996**

>  _We Ring the Bell …_
> 
>  _For Missael Rojas, John Fitzsimmons, Ray Petrochev, and Aaron Eskenazi of the New York office. The four men were killed by an Immortal during routine surveillance duties._

  
Yeah, sure they were. Who the hell is gonna buy that? You don't put four agents on "routine surveillance" of a single Immortal. It's fear mongering, pure and simple.

Looks like Missael took down two of them. I'd rather he was alive, safe. But part of me is proud of him. Least we're not the only ones counting the cost today.

Wish I could write to their families, but I can't even do that. It's their New York supervisor's job. Officially, I had no connection to Aaron and Missael at all. I'm just the one that put them in harm's way.

  
 **Saturday April 13, 1996**

Adam called to let me know that Alexa passed on in her sleep this morning in a Geneva hospital. He was with her at the end. I could hear the mourning in his voice.

Adam invited me to Alexa's funeral on the 15th. He's having her interred in Montparnasse Cemetery, Paris. Not that she had any family to care, but I wonder why he chose Paris? Maybe she and Tessa can keep each other company.

I told Adam it was too risky for me to come, and he accepted it without any fuss. I decided to close the bar Monday and throw a wake for Alexa. Lotta folks round here loved her.

  
 **Tuesday April 16, 1996**

 _We Ring the Bell …_

Two of mine dead and one of Ung's, in an ambush that the cops and the Watchers are calling a "gang turf war" in the Chicago projects. We got Tanisha to a hospital out in the suburbs, so I don't think the cops have connected her with the shootings.

Katie has been nagging at me for drinking too much at the wake yesterday. It's my hangover, and I earned it. I got more'n one ghost to drink to.

  
 **Tuesday April 23, 1996**

 _We Ring the Bell …_

Sydney was a fucking bloodbath. Four of my people and six of Ung's. I got no idea what happened, because nobody made it out alive. The Bell didn't even bother to give a reason. Just a list of names.

  
 **Tuesday April 30, 1996**

 _We Ring the Bell …_

Skirmishes this week in Jerusalem and Gdansk. We lost three, and Ung lost seven. Preemptive action is the key. Got to spot Ung's men and take them out before they see us coming.

 **Wednesday May 1, 1996**

My office phone rang. The number on the caller ID looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. Based on the county code, it could be an emergency call from one of Maria's cell.

"Dawson," I said as I picked up.

"Joe? Hello!" It was Jean-Pierre. Great.

"I haven't gotten a letter in a few weeks, so I thought I'd call. Is that alright?" He sounded unsure, like I might tell him to fuck off. And it was tempting, but he'd come through for me during the Dark Quickening, so I made an effort.

"Sure, Jean-Pierre, what's up?"

"A phone call is much better than a letter for this, Joe, because you can actually hear it! One of the men who live by the river agreed to teach me to play the harmonica. Or mouth harp, I like that name even better. Here, listen."

He started with a train sound and then swung into the first verse of "When the Levee Breaks." I was a little distracted, but it sounded okay.

"What do you think, Joe?" He was a little breathless.

"Sounds good, Jean-Pierre. Keep practicing; you'll be playing like Peg Leg Sam in no time."

"Thank you." A moment's quiet, then he started up again. "So, how is Katie?"

"Good. She's setting up this morning, so you can talk to her when we're done."

"I'd like that. And Alexa?"

Crap. I hadn't written to Jean-Pierre since before her funeral. In fact, don't think I'd even mentioned she was sick. "Jean-Pierre, she died a few weeks ago." A quiet gasp. "She had cancer, knew it was coming for a long time."

Jean-Pierre's voice was soft with grief. "I'm so sorry, Joe. I only knew Alexa for a short time, but she had a bright spirit. Was there a funeral?"

"Yeah. The, uh, friend she was traveling with had her buried in Paris, so we threw a wake for her here at the bar."

"How was it?"

"Bout what you'd expect." I'd been drunk and maudlin, second-guessing myself over what I could have done differently for Alexa, Fatima, Aaron and Missael. Good thing I got that out of my system before the real butcher's bill came due.

"And Duncan? How is he?"

"He's still in Paris."

Jean-Pierre sounded confused. "Duncan and Alexa were…"

Oh. It did kinda sound that way. "No, a mutual friend was traveling with Alexa. But I hear MacLeod was at her funeral. He's been in Paris since March."

Both of us were silent.

Jean-Pierre asked hesitantly, "They've … left you all alone?"

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. I've put as much distance between me and everyone else as I can, to keep them safe. But that bill keeps running higher and higher. Jean-Pierre said something.

"What?"

"I asked when you would be following Duncan to Paris. That is your duty, isn't it, Joe, as his Watcher?"

"I've got things to take care of here in Seacouver." I couldn't keep the cold edge out of my voice.

I heard Jean-Pierre move on the other end of the line. "What's happened?" he asked.

"Nothing."

Urgently. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm fine, Jean-Pierre."

Frantic now. "Joe, talk to me! What's wrong? What has happened to you?" His emotions beat at me like the wings of a panicked bird.

I put the phone on hold and sat for a moment in my nice, quiet office. If I hung up, he'd just keep calling, and I needed this line free for emergencies. Well. We'd already agreed he'd talk to Katie. She could talk him down.

I hauled myself out of the chair and threw open the office door. "Katie!" I bellowed.

Katie stood up down at the end of the bar, wiping her hands on a bar towel. "What's up, Joe?"

"Jean-Pierre is on the phone. I'm gonna transfer him out here. Pick up when it rings?"

A smile broke over her face. "Jean-Pierre called? You bet!"

I went into the office and stabbed the buttons needed to transfer the call. Then I walked back to close my door. Katie threw me a startled glance and then turned away, body curving protectively around the phone as she spoke quietly to Jean-Pierre. Great. Now he was gonna get her going.

Whatever. I had too much on my plate to be dealing with high-strung Immortals. I slammed the door and went back to work.

  
 **Thursday May 2, 1996**

Eugenia Mohrmann, Annie's contact at HQ, sent word today that she's been sent on a mandatory two week paid vacation. Ung must have spotted her as one of my sources. I'm surprised he didn't just shoot her.

I sent Annie a message, warning her to bunker up. Ung might have found a connection between her and Eugenia.

  
 **Friday May 3, 1996**

Part of me didn’t want to write about today. But this journal’s about telling the whole truth, for once in my life. And what happened today is part of it.

Someone knocked on my office door. I checked the clock, and wondered blearily for a moment if it was 3am or 3pm. I hadn't heard any loud music out in the bar for a long time, so it was probably afternoon. Was someone on the staff trying to talk to me again? They should know better by now.

“I’m busy!” I yelled. There was a quiet scratching at the lock. I pulled out my Beretta and thumbed off the safety. If it was a Hunter breaking in, he’d get a bellyful of lead. Methos breezed in and closed the door behind him, completely ignoring the gun pointed at him.

“Adam? What the hell are you doing here?” I safetied the Beretta and holstered it.

“Well, you weren’t answering your phone, so I tried the bar. Katie was concerned. She told me you’ve been locked in here for almost 3 days.” Methos’s nose wrinkled delicately. “Smells like she wasn’t joking.” Mugs half-full of coffee were scattered across my desktop. Balled up papers and the remnants of sandwiches over-flowed from the trashcan onto the floor. I might be getting a little ripe myself, actually. I’d had more important things to worry about.

“Yeah, well, I saw it was you on the caller ID. Look, the room’s clean of bugs, I swept it, but you shouldn’t be seen talking to me right now, Adam, it’s too dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t have to drop by if you picked up the phone,” he replied airily. “How are things going?” He acted like we had all the time in the world.

“Adam, thanks for stopping by, but I really am busy. We’ve got a Hunter group isolated in Boston and we need to move on them before they can slip away. But this book code is slow, and I have to concentrate on it. I don’t have time for a visit right now, OK?”

“Of course, Joe. Don’t mind me. I’ll just have a quick tidy up while I’m here.” That was a first, but I was too distracted to argue. I needed a “t" to finish off "airport”, and I was on the 22rd letter of this page in the book…

Methos moved around my office moving the trash into piles, inspecting my books, touching everything. He paused in a corner. “Joe, did you know your guitar has dust on it?”

“Busy, Methos, remember?” The letter in the book was "e", needed to add 15 to that, so I wrote "o" on the page. Now, "s" for “sniper”…

The rustling noises from Methos stopped again. When I glanced up at him, he was reading my bulletin board. There were two pieces of paper. Fatima, Aaron, and Missael headed the list on the left, and were followed by ten other names. The list of names on the right side was a little longer.

“Joe,” he asked mildly, “Are you keeping score?”

“Yeah. And we’re winning. Just wait ‘til we take out this Boston Hunter cell,” I told him, with some satisfaction. He showed me a neutral face, like it wasn’t good news. I felt a spike of anger. “What, you want to add Alexa’s name up there?” I offered him a Sharpie from my desk.

Hazel eyes blazed at me from a suddenly lined face. “She was never a part of this,” Methos whispered.

I was getting sick of him. “Just get the fuck out of here so I can finish coding this message!”

I turned my back, dismissing him. A stiletto bit into the desk next to my hand. I gasped and spun the chair around to look at Methos. “For the Blood Oath,” he offered flatly.

“Blood Oath?” That sounded almost … right.

“Yes. ‘I will not rest until I taste my enemy’s heart’ is a classic, but I’m sure you can come up with something traditional yet heart-felt.” Methos’s face and body language were blank, wiped clean of all meaning. I was reminded of still, crocodile-infested waters.

My eyes were drawn to the stiletto. It had a 6-inch long triangular blade, each face hollowed in a graceful curve down to the deadly point. A vague memory from my Academy arms identification class said the styling was Venetian. My fingers reached out on their own to touch the rough leather wrapped around the grip in an ancient pattern. How would it feel, to pull that weapon out of the wood and …

No. That was a stupid idea. If I cut my right hand I wouldn't be able to write. My left hand and I wouldn't be able to use my cane properly. Either one would screw up my playing. I pulled my hand back and looked up to find Methos motionless, watching me.

“How the fuck did you get that through Customs?” I asked, trying to divert him. Methos didn’t even acknowledge the bait. “Look, it’s nice that you’re worried about me, but seriously...”

“Worried?” He cut me off, moving one step closer. “Do I look like an over-grown Boy Scout? MacLeod, he would be worried. Alexa would be worried sick about you right now. But I just see it as an interesting test of my understanding of the human psyche.”

Methos stretched to his full height, filling the tiny office with his presence. “You see, I’ve been down that road you’re on, all the way to its bloody end. And I’m betting you won’t like where it takes you.”

I caught a glimpse of someone else in his eyes. It wasn’t the Adam Pierson I knew, or any version of Methos I’d seen before. It was someone who lived immersed in blood and vengeance like a deep cold ocean beyond the reach of the sun. I didn’t move a muscle. Methos stared down at me with a vicious twist to his lips.

“Of course, I could be wrong. You might enjoy it. That’s what makes the game such fun.” In an evil purr he added, “Maybe there’s more of your brother James in you than any of us guessed.”

Weakly, in my head, I thought, ‘You son of a bitch’. But I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. 'Cause, in a way, I had been enjoying it. I'd wanted those Hunters dead with a pure, burning focus like nothing I'd felt in my life. And that scary guy in Methos's eyes? He looked just a little familiar.

Methos took a final step closer, leaning over me, casting a shadow like a hawk diving for its prey. He took a ragged, gasping breath. Then he tugged his stiletto out of the desktop, tucked it in his cuff, and walked out the door.

I sat trembling at my desk. So that’s what 5,000 year-old wisdom looks like. Imagine fucking up so spectacularly that for the rest of your Immortal life, all you have to do is let folks see a glimpse of it to scare them straight. Damn.

This was supposed to be about saving people from the Hunters, not killing them. I looked at the half-encoded message on my desk, ordering the death of seven men and women. Christ. I ripped up the message. Next I quickly coded a stand-down message, sent it out to all my teams. This had to stop.

Then I stood up. It’s wasn’t easy – I’d been sitting at that desk for over 9 hours. But I stood up, walked over to the bulletin board, and tore down the list of Hunter dead. I reached for the list of my own people, hesitated. Finally I folded it with respect, like a flag at a vet’s funeral, and tucked it in my shirt pocket.

What next? Nothing. I checked my watch. It was Friday afternoon. I decided to head upstairs for a shower and a nap. Maybe tonight I would get to Church. Light some candles. And thank God for Methos.


	12. Professional Help

**Saturday May 4, 1996**

We’d just closed up for the night. The place was packed right up until last call, and I was feeling the effects of a busy 10-hour shift. My stumps were aching, eyes were gritty, and I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. 

I'd left my Beretta upstairs. Packing heat in my own bar was kinda paranoid, and I needed to get away from all that. But I felt real jumpy without it. A few times over the shift I'd reached down to touch the butt of the loaded shotgun that I stowed under the register last month. It helped. Other than that, I just tried to act normal.

I thought Methos might come by tonight, but nobody had heard from him since he walked out of the bar yesterday. Another day to get my head together before we talked wouldn't be a bad thing. Besides, if I called him, who would pick up the phone? My brilliant drinking buddy, Adam Pierson? The cynical but loyal ancient Immortal Methos? Or … that other guy?

I was standing behind the bar cleaning up when two men walked in. ‘Damn it’, I thought, ‘Mike was supposed to have locked that door’. “Sorry guys, we’re closed!” I called out.

The two of them looked real similar. Late 20’s, Caucasian, with buzz cuts. One of them had on a green windbreaker over jeans and some snazzy snakeskin cowboy boots. The other was wearing a trench coat. Who wears trench coats in this weather except Immortals?

“You Dawson?” the one in the trench coat asked.

“Sure am, but…” The guy reached into his coat. All my Watcher instincts screamed ‘sword’, but he pulled out a shotgun.

I threw myself down behind the bar as he fired, shattering the bottles where I was standing. Part of my brain was checking off the liquor he wasted by the smell, and part of it was registering the pain of a bitten tongue and crawling over the broken glass, but mostly I was just focused on getting to my shotgun.

Time stop-jerked forward. I grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and cocked the hammers. Would they come around the end of the bar or over the top? Around the end – it was close to them and it’d look safer. I aimed down the barrels towards the end of the bar. As soon as one jeans-clad leg appeared, I fired off one barrel. Shit, it was loud! The guy’s knee was a red mess as he fell down and forwards. His head was perfectly framed between the wall and the bar when I took my second shot. The blast echoed through my head, leaving my ears ringing. He collapsed into a limp pile. I could tell from my days in ‘Nam – that one was out of the fight.

The shells to reload my shotgun were up on the high shelf, behind the bar. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but even under good circumstances, it takes me a while to stand up from lying on the floor. Trying it with someone taking pot shots at me – there was no way.

The partner came into view, cowboy boots stepping over Trench Coat’s body at the end of the bar. Face full of rage, black carbon steel pistol in his hands, mouth moving but I couldn’t hear shit over the ringing in my ears. As he pointed the gun at my head, I figured it was over, and wished I’d had the time to say some goodbyes.

I saw it in his eyes, the moment when Boots decided I wasn't gonna die quick and easy. Teeth bared in a snarl, his gun started tracing the outline of my body. It paused at my hands, still gripping the empty shotgun. I shuddered. One good shot there, and I'd never strum a guitar again. Boots saw it, smiled a tight little smile. Then the pistol moved on, tracking up and down the center of my back. A severed spinal cord meant a lifetime spent in a wheelchair, limp-dicked and wearing diapers. Higher up, and I'd be a quadriplegic. Like one of the guys in the VA Hospital; watching TV all day, waiting for someone to come feed me. My breath came harder, faster, as my body screamed at me to move, fight, do something.

Finally the pistol reached my legs, and I saw Boots make a decision to start there. He must not have known I don’t have any kneecaps left to shoot.

A loud crack penetrated the ringing in my ears just as I felt the impact of a round against my prosthetic. I yelled as loud as I could, dropped the shotgun, curled up to hide the “wound”, and braced against the bar. Boots stalked towards me and aimed a brutal kick at my head. I twisted out of the way, grabbed onto his other ankle and pulled with all my strength. The gun went off; he came down, free arm knocking another dozen bottles off the shelves to land on top of us. Then I was clawing my way up his body, trapping his gun hand under me.

I heard a drill instructor screaming in my ear, ‘Gun’s just a weapon, boy! A trained Marine is a killing machine!’ The windbreaker was too damn slippery, especially with my hands slicked-up with liquor and my own blood. I hooked in at his collar and got a good solid grip. I recognized the feel of a Kevlar vest. These guys were definitely professionals. I was up on top of him, but I had to take him out fast. His free hand was already trying for my eyes. I had the strength to hold him, but without my legs I didn’t have the leverage. He’d buck me off in another second.

That’s when I saw it, right next to his head. When I first opened the bar, I bought this one bottle of 1985 Dom Perignon, just in case somebody wanted to spend big on a celebration someday. It’d been sitting on the shelf ever since, until Boots knocked it off.

I lurched over Boots to reach the bottle, head-butting him on the way. I grabbed the bottle, raised it up, and smashed it down onto his face. Blood splashed me in the eyes, but he was still struggling, so I did it again. And again. Son of a bitch thought he would walk into MY bar and kill me? I slammed the bottle down. Never gonna hurt me or mine. Again. Again. Looking at what I’d been staring at, I realized there was no reason to keep hitting the guy. Caved in forehead, shattered cheekbones … his own mother couldn’t ID him. Jesus. Good one, Joseph, I thought. Which guy were you planning on questioning, the one you shot in the head, or the one with no face left?

I fumbled around until I found the pistol. It was a SIG Saur, M11. I had to wipe my hands off on my shirt to get a decent grip on it. Automatically, I checked the chamber and the clip. Still 7 rounds left. I just hoped I wouldn’t need that many.

I pulled myself over what was left of Boots, then rested for a minute, sitting up against the wall. I knew I was forgetting something. I just … wasn’t thinking too clearly. I checked myself over. It was a little hard to tell how much of the blood was mine, but the shards of glass had ripped up my skin. There was a nasty slash in my left arm that would need stitches, for sure. And I think I pulled a muscle in my stomach, at some point in there. My ears were still ringing from all those shots behind the bar. Something trickled into my eyes. I rubbed my face on my sleeve. What was I forgetting?

I saw movement out the corner of my eye. I pushed off the wall and into a shooting position on the floor, drawing a bead on whatever’s there. It was Mike. Fucking Mike. Knew I was forgetting something. He looked scared out of his mind. His mouth was moving, but I still couldn’t hear anything but my own heartbeat. Mike was walking towards me. Any closer and he’d be able to reach Trench Coat’s shotgun.

I raised my voice. “Back up and sit down, or I will shoot you where you stand.” He was jabbering something at me. I can read lips, a little. I learned the basics when I was at the Academy, and it’s useful for when all you’ve got on a subject is visual surveillance. He was saying something about how it was just him, Mike.

“Yeah, I know it’s you, Mike. And I’m wondering exactly why you chose to leave that door unlocked tonight. Now sit the fuck down!"

He backed up into the far corner and sat. I inched forward to reach the end of bar without losing sight of Mike. I got to Trench Coat and slid the coat up off his wrists, and then glanced down. No Watcher tattoos. Yeah, like I thought, these guys were pros. I was sure they were hired by Ung, but there wouldn’t be any trail leading back to him.

I yanked on the phone cord until the bar phone tumbled down onto the floor. Then I dialed a number from memory. I heard a tinny, distant voice on the end and yelled into the phone. “Gary, this is Joe Dawson. I'm at the bar. We've got a clean-up situation. Multiple. Get here as soon as you can. I'll wake-up Andrea and Sam." Even if Gary was one of Ung's, he wouldn't dare pull anything when I had contacted the other two members of the regional clean-up team. I hung up the receiver and pushed myself into a seated position, facing Mike.

“So, Mike. I didn’t mention if you were alive or dead. Could be these robbers shot you on the way in, with this pistol. If you’re on their side, I figure that’s the best way to handle it. We’ve got about 15, 20 minutes until Gary gets here. Convince me I’m wrong.”

I checked Mike’s lips, but he wasn’t saying a word. He was pale as bad milk. One thing was sure. Even if Mike let them in, he didn’t have the guts to take me on himself.

“All right then, Mike, let’s take this one step at a time. Why didn’t you lock the door?”

My hearing was starting to come back. I caught some of what Mike was saying through my ears, and the rest by watching his lips. “Joe, I swear, I didn’t know anything about this! We were slammed tonight, I been waiting to go for an hour! So, when we closed up, I went to take a crap first, before I locked up.”

That had to be the lamest excuse I ever heard in my life. Fuck him. Mike wanted me dead; he’d die first. I exhaled slowly and focused in, to get a clean shot. In my head, I heard Methos hissing at me, ‘Maybe there’s more of your brother James in you than any of us guessed.’ Maybe. But Mike was a Hunter; it had to be this way.

Mike shuffled his feet nervously, and a flash of white caught my eye. There was toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Mike always held still when he was lying. I eased off the trigger, started laughing, and couldn’t stop. Mike smiled weakly. I laughed until that pulled muscle in my stomach hurt enough to stop me.

“Look, Mike - I believe you. I believe you didn’t leave that door unlocked on purpose.” He sagged with relief. “But I also know that you didn’t lift a finger to help me. Someone sent those two in here to kill me. Since you don’t have my back, just stay the fuck out of my way. Now, go get a mop. You've got a lot of work to do before the morning shift arrives.”

I put down the gun. My hands started shaking. They didn’t stop for a few hours.

I nearly bit Gary's head off when he tried to take that Sig pistol away, 'cause it was mine. It was a stupid reaction, of course. Who knows what crimes the damn thing had been used in? In the end I let Gary take the pistol to dispose of, along with the bodies. But it was hard. I never understood before why MacLeod keeps the swords of Immortals he takes down in Challenges. Now I know. Now I get it.

Through a long night of cleaning up the bar and getting patched up on the QT by Dr. Lindsey, I kept coming back to that one moment with Mike. Tonight was the first time I killed anybody since the war. The two guys that came at me, I’m not gonna worry myself about them. But I came within a heartbeat of killing Mike, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Guess that’s between me and God.


	13. The End

**Sunday May 5, 1996**

Methos showed up 20 minutes after I called. He knocked on the door to my apartment above the bar and walked right in. Then he stopped dead in the doorway and stared.

Shit, he’d never seen me in a wheelchair before. I waved to him with a bandaged hand and joked weakly, “You should see the other guys.”

Something flashed across his face. What was that? Grief, rage, shock? Maybe I reminded him of Alexa somehow. An affable smile quickly covered the emotion. He closed the door and walked over to drape his coat over an armchair.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, leaning close to peer into my eyes and sniff my breath. What, does he think I'm drunk? Methos's fingers moved quickly over my scalp, checking for bumps. Got enough poking last night from Dr. Lindsey, now I gotta put up with it from him, too?

“A little sore, but not bad. I’m waiting to get a new prosthetic leg – the old one got banged up.” The VA paperwork was a bitch, but I called Dr. Crane direct and got a fitting appointment scheduled for Tuesday.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

"Nah, I'm fine." A few stitches and a pulled muscle don't really count.

Methos hmmed at me while checking my pulse on both wrists, and then plopped down into the armchair. “You need 10 hours of sleep for the next few nights, no alcohol, and don’t try playing the guitar for at least for 3 days,” he prescribed. “Now, did you just call me for a second opinion, or were you planning on telling me what happened?”

“You were right, Adam.” He nodded lazily. “This secret little war we started has cost too many lives, and we need to put a stop to it.”

“Easier said than done, Joe.”

“Well, I’ve got an idea, and I want you to check my thinking. Ung is the key. All that crap he said in that speech to the Hunters, about being a survivor in Cambodia, doing anything he had to to stay alive, do you think that’s true?”

Methos leaned forward, eyes intent. “Yes, I think that part is true. How does it help us?”

“Adam, we know Ung is willing to kill for the cause. But I don’t think he’s ready to die for it. I wrote this letter to him.”

It took me a few tries with my hands bandaged up. In big, simple script, the letter read:

>  **Ung –  
>  I’m still standing. Your boys aren’t. This has gone far enough. Put a stop to it, before I make it personal.  
> Joe Dawson**

  
Methos looked up from reading it. “You think you can threaten him into a truce, Joe? I’m not sure you’re that frightening,” he countered, skeptical.

“Yeah, well, you are, but Adam Pierson sure as hell ain’t gonna do it. Here’s what I need from you. Find a way to deliver this letter to Ung. On his pillow, while he’s asleep.”

A nasty little smile bloomed on Methos’s face. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Joe.” He paused, and then put the letter down on his lap, shaking his head. “But this letter is certain to make you a target.”

“I don’t think so, Adam. He already had his shot. The two guys he sent after me last night are buried deep in the woods, and that’s got to be scaring him. We need to push now, while he’s off-balance.”

Methos stood up abruptly and walked to my bookshelf. He ran his finger along the spine of the books. After a few seconds, he asked idly “Ung sent men to kill you?”

“Yeah, no tattoos. I'm thinking they were ex-military.” Neither one had much of a face left for an id, but Gary had taken their fingerprints. I had a contact in research running them through U.S. military, FBI, and Interpol databases, see if we got any hits.

He carefully folded the letter. “I’ll be happy to deliver this for you, Joe.”

As Methos walked to the chair and put on his coat I wondered what caused the quick turn-around. I was expecting more of an argument, to be honest. “Get better soon!” he wished me cheerfully, heading towards the door. Why was Methos in such a hurry?

“Adam?” I called out. He kept moving. What if he was planning on doing more than just delivering a letter?

“Methos!” I snapped. He paused; hand on the doorknob, turned away from me. “Just so we’re on the same page, Ung needs to be alive, to stop this thing. If he dies, so will a lot of other people, both Watchers and Immortals.”

I watched the back of his head and trench coat. Methos took in a deep breath and let it out. “I understand, Joe,” he told me. “I won’t be in touch for a few days. I want to make sure this errand isn’t traced back to Adam Pierson.”

“OK, Adam. Take care of yourself. Goodbye.” He opened the door and walked out, quietly closing it behind him. Well, that's one goodbye taken care of, just in case this doesn't work out.

Did I over-react, or was he really going to kill Ung? I guess I’ll never know. But that’s OK, because I trust Methos. Not to tell the truth, of course. And not to do what I think is right. He’s got his own standards, and I’ll be damned if they make any sense to me. But I trust him to be a friend to me and MacLeod, to do what he thinks is right, and to survive.

  
 **Tuesday May 7, 1996**

The fax purred out of the office machine just before midnight.

In Ung's handwriting, it said:

>  _Mr. Dawson –_
> 
>  _You defend your position with unexpected vigor. In light of your recent feedback, I am willing to call a temporary halt to my group's activities if you will do the same. Alternative methods may produce comparable benefits with significantly less risk._
> 
>  _\- Narath Ung_

  
I collapsed into my desk chair, as muscles that had been tied up in knots for a month suddenly gave way. Thank God. Thank you, God. Ung blinked first.

It was over.

I spent the next three hours composing and transmitting book-coded messages to my people, letting them know that a cease-fire had been called. Then I went to bed determined to sleep the clock round. I hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in weeks, and I deserved the rest.

  
 **Wednesday May 8, 1996**

Greg Trudeau called at 6 in the morning. He was pissed off about something. At first I couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying. When he finally got through to me, it felt like a mortar round. Greg was upset because he'd been reassigned away from Watching Duncan MacLeod, as of yesterday. He couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong.

I don't remember getting up, putting on my new prosthetics, getting dressed, or logging on in my office. When I called up MacLeod's file I saw that David Shapiro had been assigned as his new Watcher. David Shapiro. Jack Shapiro's son. I dialed Mac's number. No answer. Tried again. Still no answer.

I was sitting alone on-stage with my Gibson an hour later when the official call came through. The war’s final casualty died yesterday in Paris, France, right before the truce went into affect. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was dead.

He's dead.

Did Ung finally decide he was a threat? Or did he do it just to hurt me? I always figured getting close to Mac might get me killed. But no. 400 years, a top contender in the Game, and I was the nail in his coffin.

I failed Mac as a friend. I didn't warn him he was in danger, and I wasn't there to save him. I hadn't even seen him in months. All that time, wasted. I thought I was protecting him.

I failed Duncan MacLeod as his Watcher. An Immortal's final moments are important, and I wasn't there to record them. Whatever David Shapiro might report, I'll never know the truth. His Chronicle will never be complete.

I had to … make arrangements. He'd want to be buried next to Tessa in Paris. I needed to call people; let them know he was gone.

He's gone.

But I couldn't. Not yet. First I would fly to Paris. Take one last look at the barge. See his body. Then I'd start contacting his friends. I'm sure the Watchers won't approve. But I could get all the numbers before they cut my access. Nothing's worse than the uncertainty of a friend MIA. Amanda would cry. Methos ... Methos would forgive me. I wasn't sure I could face that.

Mike was very helpful. He was lying again, hiding something. I didn't care what it was.

Annie must have heard. She left an urgent message to call her. Annie had a voice like a general giving orders on the battlefield, and I almost called her out of pure reflex. But I didn't want to talk to her about it, either.

All those good people dead, and now MacLeod to top it off.

I reached deep down inside for something to help me through this. A spark of anger to warm me up. Faith that he's gone to a better place. A song to help me mourn. But I got nothing. Nothing.

It was over.  



	14. Epilogue

To: [jshapiro@watcher.net](mailto:jshapiro@watcher.net)  
From: [mbarrett@watcher.net](mailto:mbarrett@watcher.net)  
Subject: Dawson's schedule

Mr. Shapiro –

Joe Dawson's a real mess, but he's on his way. He'll be arriving at the Charles de Gaulle airport on Delta 8303 at 7:20am Paris time. Try to grab him at the airport, if you can. If not, it looks like he'll be heading straight to MacLeod's barge.

I still don't think this is the right way to handle this. I'm lodging an official protest, and I want it entered in Dawson's trial records. He needs to answer for what he's done, but not like this. Even with the recent violence, if the Tribunal summoned Dawson, he would come in voluntarily.

Faking Duncan MacLeod's death to pull Dawson in puts the organization at unnecessary risk. If we miss our timing, and MacLeod finds out we've snatched Dawson, he will get involved.

You're the boss, Jack. Just … think about it, okay?

Mike


End file.
